Franklin: Travel
I hear there’s a human expression: Travel broadens one. Allow me to wave a dismissive paw at the notion, for that entire concept is ridiculous. Kitties are much too sensible to take to the road, the air, or *shudder* the water for some sort of “fun.” We’re much too intelligent to load up our bowls, boxes, kibbles, cans, toys, cat trees, and all the other necessary accoutrements of our lives just to… to move somewhere.
If I want to move, I’ve shift from Mom’s chair to the wedge of sunshine beneath the dining room window. If I need a bloomin’ change of scenery, I’ll make the trek from the kitchen into the family room.
So all this time, I believed that I had adopted sensible people. Apparently not. I first detected signs of the travel bug when I heard Mom talking excitedly on the phone about “the Magic Kingdom” and some sort of rodent. (Rodent? On pul-lease! This “Mr. Disney” to whom she reverently refers obviously made a real poor choice in mascot!) Anyway, last week, the bed was covered with rectangular carrying devices, spare shoes, and neatly folded clothes. Brother and I couldn’t do too much about the “suitcases,” as she called them, save for planting a lot of spare fur bits in the interior crevices—all the better to adorn Mom’s dark sweaters. However, we did take the time to service a few more shoe laces and leave the formerly-folded clothes in a not-so-folded state. A cat has to show a certain protest for any change in his routine, after all!
Independent creatures that Winston and I have become, we both agree the house was rather quiet for those four days. Sure, we had good care: family members stopped by twice a day to put out food, change up water dishes, and pay us a bit of petting homage. Still… late at night, I found myself wandering the hallway, wondering just where I were supposed to put my furry self when bedtime came.
A few days ago, I *cough* just happened to be sitting in the window, minding my own business, when a car pulled up outside and my people returned, burdened with boxes, bags, and bulging suitcases. In order to enforce my dignity, I eschewed a formal greeting and headed back up the stairs to pay careful attention to grooming my back paw. Winston busied himself with eating a few crunchies, and gave them a "What, you were gone?" expression that I high-fived him for later.
But I have to admit, we're both secretly glad they brought us those plush Goofies and Stitches!
posted by Gaile Gray @ 1:31 AM
2 Comments
2 Comments:
Haha! I've been the cat-sitter for several friends. The real challenge was taking care of one couple's 9 kitties. In a small grad student rental house, they had an entire wall of their bedroom lined with fish tanks, aka cat television, separated from the cats by plastic sheeting. There were 4 litter boxes, and lots of cat toys. Even though about 30% of the cats decided to hide, it was still a challenge to pay sufficient homage to each of the cats who would circle my legs saying, "it's okay if you wish to pet me. I'll allow that--this time!"
That cat-sitting job sounds pretty fun! (Well, until you mention the four cat boxes. ;p ) The most I've had in the way of adult cats was four. That was a goodly number, especially in an apartment. But they were a great family -- Dad, Mom, two adult offspring -- and I loved the whole lot of 'em. They were a real study in how every cat is a complete and distinct personality, for that Fearless Foursome was made of up characters who were all very different. The real challenge was nighttime, when they all slept on the bed and I found myself hugging the edge. :)
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