“What, what, what? Where’s breakfast?”
“Did the clocks go back?”
“No, stupid. It’s July!“
“Don’t you call me stupid!”
“Where are those orange things?”
“Maybe the clocks did go back!”
“Nah. That old woman just overslept.”
“But where are the groundhogs?”
“Lazy lumps. They stay in bed till they smell orange..”
“Carrots, Percy. They’re carrots.”
“As long as they’re not parrots. Parrots are pushy.”
“Could you maybe spare us a nut?”
“Ask me nicely and I’ll think about it.”
“How much longer do you have to think?”
“I’ll get back to you. Now scram!”
“What, what, what!”
“Ha, ha. That took care of that!”
“Hm, I think I’ll have that one.”
“Oh dear. There’s not much left.”
“I’d better go and stare in the old woman’s window.”
“See if there’s any sign of life”
In fact I did not oversleep.
It seemed as if from 3 am on, there had been constant pussycat pestering, pushing and poking with asides of spitting and hissing and vomiting…
Not that I have experience with human small fry, but sometimes it’s like having a whole tribe of needy kids hanging off me and whining.
There is always the solution of a shut door.
“Oh you wouldn’t!”
Patches, the main pesterer!
Some years ago, similarly frustrated, I had shut my bedroom door.
Next morning I found the banned pussycat in great physical distress. I rushed him immediately to the vet who could not save him.
And the guilt has never left me.
Patches simply craves affection and petting.
3 am is not the optimum time for me, but that’s when she wakes up in need. (Not every night, thank God)
Most nights, Blackie is tucked up beside me and takes issue with Patches stepping all over her, never mind horning in on her territory.
So then there’s a spat, over the top of my head.
Followed frequently by Lucy producing a loud distracting vomit. Not that I get out of bed for those, usually.
It’s her way of telling the other two that she owns me.
She tries to demonstrate this by walking back and forth across my chest as I lie trying to read. Every night.
It’s a quite deliberate move because the bed is very large and there is no reason at all why Lucy should have to take the route she always does.
She always was a real Madam of a cat.
She doesn’t even want my lap, doesn’t want to be picked up or petted.
Mostly, she just doesn’t want the others getting the privilege. Though a snack won’t go amiss.
Willow, my oh-so-complicated little love, sometimes curls up quietly at the end of the bed , without fuss and disturbing no-one.
When the drama starts with the others, she departs and mostly spends her night mouse hunting.
And, according to Grant, pissing on his wall.
“You’re writing about me aren’t you?” (see the ears)
Usually when Willow’s hunt is successful, she’ll bring her catch upstairs to share with me.
Such a special sort of sleep disruption.
Though it’s not infallible, apparently. The other morning I found a very stiff corpse at the foot of my bed, so I must have slept through that drama!
But when daylight came today I simply could not summon the act of will to rise as I normally do, to replenish bird feeders before breakfast.
It wouldn’t hurt them at all to notice for once what it would be like should service be terminated.
When finally I got up, an hour late, I hastily scattered some peanuts as I cannot cope with those little faces gazing at me reproachfully.
Mornings here are usually fresh. Not today. It fitted with my general “I’m done with this!” attitude.
The air was thick, wrapping itself around me like a sticky candy wrapper that you can’t shake off.
Bugs crawled up and over and under and in every crevice, even riding indoors with me.
My hair frizzed up to twice normal volume.
Even the sky looked hot.
Considering how very much worse off so many people are, I hasten to say that this is not a complaint!
Grant discovered that the air conditioner in the car is not broken after all.
Then we had an actual thunderstorm.
Duration approximately 3 minutes.
Precipitation not noticeable.
What is really interesting though…
Not only did the groundhogs forgo breakfast; they have not yet been seen today.
Not a hair on a single head.
Perhaps it’s the barometric pressure.
Or perhaps they are having a subterranean conference.
Indoctrination of the young ones concerning hibernation rules and etiquette.
Dee Dee is another skilled mouser.
Fortunately, she was busy elsewhere this morning…
Pottering about in the garage as I looked for my clippers, Grant came upon a half used bag of dirt, just what he wanted for the new flowerbed.
He went out to scatter it and I heard a sudden anguished: “Oh No!”
What sort of drama could result from scattering soil?
The bag of soft dirt had apparently provided just the right environment for a mouse to have babies.
She was nursing them when they were suddenly unceremoniously ejected onto my flowerbed.
Needless to say they were all promptly rescued and I didn’t poke my camera at them as they were quite sufficiently traumatized.
And speaking of trauma, we are wondering if that is what is happening to the young sugar maple that we transplanted two years ago.
It has done well in it’s new place with expanded root space, but its leaves are turning prematurely.
In the meantime, since I began writing here, a proper thunderstorm blew over with heavy rain.
Hopefully it will help our tree.
As for me, however vexed I get with my little darlings, I only need remind myself of that time I closed my bedroom door…
I would do anything to take that back.