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for sale, cheap, ginger feline
Monday, 26 May 2014 01:15 pmI love my cat, really I do. Hobbit is a feline of character and authority, as well as being ridiculously fluffy and frequently cute. It's sometimes difficult to remember this, though, when dealing with his post-removals state of miff, because he's completely hideous to live with. He has every reason to be insecure and angsty given the sudden, unsolicited and radical reshaping of his environment, but that's not my first response when I fall over him for the umpteenth time because he's no more than six inches from my ankles at any given moment, being needy and insecure.
Or, as this morning, when I'm bumbling through the day in a somnambulistic daze because he spent the night trying, at intervals, to dig through the curtain next to my bed in a futile attempt to get at the window, which was closed, anyway. He's a very loud cat. And a heavy one. When he jumps onto the bed, the resulting small mattress-quake infallibly wakes me up. Then he walks heavily over my recumbent form to get to the window, scrabbles ineffectually at it for a few minutes, walks heavily back over me and either jumps to the floor with a dull thud, or curls up in the corner of my bed and washes himself. Loudly. Just as I'm drifting off to sleep, he leaps to the floor with a dull thud, and then spends the next 20 minutes wandering around the house, mewing piteously. And loudly.
If I cave at 2.30 am and in desperation shut him out of the bedroom, he mews loudly and repeatedly throws himself bodily against the door like a small, furry battering ram until I cave again and let him in. At which point he repeats the cycle above. He must have woken me up five or six times last night, mostly out of a fitful doze because I'm really bad at getting properly back to sleep once awoken. I'm a zombie today, and am finding it difficult to focus on the fact that I love my kitty, really, because of the traditional red haze of undead homicidal mania. I hope he settles down soon. My mental health is suffering.
Despite this I had a lovely weekend, including random takeout and Girly Evening with Claire and Lara on Saturday, and a blissful Sunday morning empty-cinema viewing of X-Men: Days of Future Past, which is a damned good film of which more anon. I also have to report that my niece's dance performance, one of those giant ones at the Opera House with umpteen dance schools participating, was surprisingly enjoyable. She makes a cute Dalmatian puppy, in a pile of similar 8-year-olds being pursued around the stage by Cruella de Vil. Also, while I am still unable to overcome my ingrowing dislike of the stilted, artificial codes of classical ballet, I enjoyed the hell out of the tap, modern, Celtic and, oddly, hip-hop numbers. I blame Stv for the hip-hop, he's the one who insists on showing me Step Up movies. But I realise that I'm also all about actual synchronised movement in dance - my favourite tradition is still ballroom, in the Fred Astaire sense rather than the modern reality show one. I like it when there's lots of mirrored, mutual movement rather than static poses. Hip-hop definitely counts, and its energy is infectious.
Or, as this morning, when I'm bumbling through the day in a somnambulistic daze because he spent the night trying, at intervals, to dig through the curtain next to my bed in a futile attempt to get at the window, which was closed, anyway. He's a very loud cat. And a heavy one. When he jumps onto the bed, the resulting small mattress-quake infallibly wakes me up. Then he walks heavily over my recumbent form to get to the window, scrabbles ineffectually at it for a few minutes, walks heavily back over me and either jumps to the floor with a dull thud, or curls up in the corner of my bed and washes himself. Loudly. Just as I'm drifting off to sleep, he leaps to the floor with a dull thud, and then spends the next 20 minutes wandering around the house, mewing piteously. And loudly.
If I cave at 2.30 am and in desperation shut him out of the bedroom, he mews loudly and repeatedly throws himself bodily against the door like a small, furry battering ram until I cave again and let him in. At which point he repeats the cycle above. He must have woken me up five or six times last night, mostly out of a fitful doze because I'm really bad at getting properly back to sleep once awoken. I'm a zombie today, and am finding it difficult to focus on the fact that I love my kitty, really, because of the traditional red haze of undead homicidal mania. I hope he settles down soon. My mental health is suffering.
Despite this I had a lovely weekend, including random takeout and Girly Evening with Claire and Lara on Saturday, and a blissful Sunday morning empty-cinema viewing of X-Men: Days of Future Past, which is a damned good film of which more anon. I also have to report that my niece's dance performance, one of those giant ones at the Opera House with umpteen dance schools participating, was surprisingly enjoyable. She makes a cute Dalmatian puppy, in a pile of similar 8-year-olds being pursued around the stage by Cruella de Vil. Also, while I am still unable to overcome my ingrowing dislike of the stilted, artificial codes of classical ballet, I enjoyed the hell out of the tap, modern, Celtic and, oddly, hip-hop numbers. I blame Stv for the hip-hop, he's the one who insists on showing me Step Up movies. But I realise that I'm also all about actual synchronised movement in dance - my favourite tradition is still ballroom, in the Fred Astaire sense rather than the modern reality show one. I like it when there's lots of mirrored, mutual movement rather than static poses. Hip-hop definitely counts, and its energy is infectious.
