>> Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The winter just won't let go of its death grip on Central New York. 40 mile an hour wind gusts are (again) buffeting the house. There is a grim warning of snow in tonight's forecast. If I wake up to a white Village tomorrow morning I shall scream.
Anywho, we've all got cabin fever. All eight of us. Yes, that's right, all eight. That includes the Attic Ghoul, who just this past weekend wandered out of his fiercely guarded attic hideaway of his own volition. I was making myself a snack around 8:00 Saturday evening, and heard a meow several times before it registered in some dim recess of my brain that the meow didn't seem to belong in the scene. I looked down, and discovered Rocky sitting on the kitchen floor, looking up at me, meowing curiously. It was as if he was saying, "Hey Mom. Is this where you go when you're not petting me in my attic?"
The former recluse hasn't looked back. He wandered about exploring a little that evening, cool as a cucumber, as if he had been living comfortably with the rest of us forever. Sunday morning, I awoke to find him sitting draped over my husband's legs, purring comfortably. Why it took him seven weeks to emerge from his attic, I shall probably never know. In a couple of days, he's progressed from practical non-existence, to being a persistently purring ankle-bumper, who follows me from room to room and is surely going to cause me to trip down the stairs in the immediate future.
Somehow our giant 2,200 square foot house seems to be shrinking with each pet we add. It seemed HUGE when we moved in here with just five of us.
What with the miserable weather, we all need something to occupy our attention, so while my husband braved the winds to glue parts of his car back together (curse the road debris from someone's @#%$*^! uncovered load on the highway!), I got the bright idea to construct a cat playhouse.
It took three sizable cardboard boxes, a box cutter and some tape. I had to dump cats out of it several times before I could finish it, which I took to be a good sign.
Ta da! Hours of feline entertainment.
Here's proof Rocky has emerged. There he is, on the left, looking burly. I love how the boxes have sprouted a tail.
Watching for paws to come waving through the hidey holes:
Thus far it's the biggest hit with the young 'uns. Pippin is only a bit over a year, and Wednesday, though past two, retains an eternally kittenish disposition that I expect she'll retain forever. The three year olds, Sneakers and Rocky, are more dignified, and though intrigued, will likely only explore it when they think no one else is looking.
And grouchy old Tucker? He would never stoop so low as to acknowledge the presence of something the "kids" play with!