2001-01-25
Dear Diary:

Well, I might as well admit it because sadly, it's true.

Yep, I'm pussywhipped. The perpetrator is a tiny black cat with 'tude to burn and a fixation about proper bedtimes.

When I was a kid I couldn't wait to grow up so that I could go to bed whenever I pleased. Now here I am a few months short of my 50th birthday and I'm being bossed into bed by my cat.

I don't remember signing up for this.

Zoe starts her "must get Marn into bed at a decent time" routine around 10:30 at night. If I'm out in the living room watching TV with Paul, she hops on my lap and stares fixedly at me. I sweartogawd that if that cat had opposable thumbs she would be swinging one of those dangling watches back and forth before my eyes and murmuring, "You are feeling verrrrrrry sleepy."

If I'm in here at my computer, she drifts into my office and again just stares at me, beaming sleepy thoughts my way. Any other time of day or night she cuts me colder than a frog and goes about her busy schedule of um, er, ah, well ... mostly sleeping. But when 10:30 rolls around, she's a cat on a mission.

I can usually buy myself some time until about 11. By then I have an extremely cranky kitty muttering what I suspect are very rude things in short little meows, practically threatening me with physical harm. Properly chastised, I go to bed as ordered.

You are feeling verrrrry sleepy.  You will do as I say.  My powers are infinite. Yep, I'm pussywhipped by a critter that weighs less than five pounds. Oh, stop snickering. As if YOU could stand up to a cat that can shoot you a look like this.

Zoe may boss me to bed, but the critter balance of power has tipped the other way in The Great Grey Squirrel War of 2001. It has been weeks now since the squirrels have made a run at the feeders, so the spousal unit and I are declaring a complete and total victory.

Those of you wearing hats are welcome to toss them up into the air, the rest of you feel free to applaud, eh.

In claiming victory we have decided to ignore two tiny facts.

One is that the birds pitch enough seeds on the ground to make the effort of climbing or making dangerous flying leaps up to the feeders stupid and a waste of energy as far as the squirrels are concerned.

I don't know, but to me it looks as if the first squirrel was rubbing his hands in glee, eh. Nor are we mentioning the squirrel feeding platform that was built especially for them a few weeks ago and on which Paul sprinkles bird seed daily.

The battle was fought over the birdfeeders. The squirrels have stopped climbing up into and pillaging the feeders so we have won. The rest of it is all mere technicalities.

So tell me, why do I feel that squirrel I photographed today is rubbing his paws in glee at his triumph?

Hrm ...

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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