Box, Tool, Cat, Pool, Mouse

No, this isn't some cognitive test only a stable genius could ace. So, the box:

Though dad generally despises the questionable quality of much of what's available via the frequently necessary evil that is amazon.com, it has become, as I said, a necessary evil. Oh, sure, there are brick and mortar options within traveling distance, but even such trips have become quite the nuisance, to hear dad bitch through gritted teeth. So-

The box, my new temporary "shelter", was dropped outside our front door recently and contained a particular plumbing tool that was barely- and I emphasize the word barely- as long.

Said tool, however, was nowhere near the width or depth of the box, and dad laughed like a madman as he sliced through the packing tape and pulled open the flaps and thinking of the many packages he receives at work with things printed on them touting such bullpoop as "made with less packaging", or "uses less material", blah, blah, blah.

So, other than a box that Dad cut an opening into way back when we lived in Asheville that I occasionally lounged, I've never really been one for boxes.

Well, after dad removed the tool from the box and left the coffin-sized thing on its side on the living room floor (mom actually fit inside it), I apparently surprised them both by stepping into it and settling into a corner.

This was a week or more ago now, and that box still sits in the corner, my safe space when the mood strikes. Anyhoo, onto the mouse:

Dad walked into the boss's backyard the other day and noticed something perched on the floating tube connected to the robotic cleaner that roams the bottom of the pool.

On closer inspection, he realized it was this delicious little morsel, likely clinging with death grips to one of the floats on the tube.

Dad grabbed a net and extended the handle in order to reach the poor little creature, and when the mesh approached, it jumped into the water, fleeing for its life toward the pool's edge.

It wasn't able to get out on its own, so dad brought the net up from beneath and scooped it up, gently placing the net on the ground, allowing the frightened critter to hop out and scurry off to safety into the shrubs. 

And they all lived happily ever after.

 The end.

R.I.P. Ozzy

And Now for Mom

 Being an equal opportunity love sponge, it's only fair that I share some mom loves. Mom and dad give me different voices, have various ways & methods of showering me with attention, and snuggle with me in their own unique ways, but in the end, it's all the same. They just damn adore me. Period. Here, I'm getting scritches while chilling in a big empty box (funny story on that in the next post). 

This last one pretty much sums it up. 

 Three... two... one... "Awwwwwwww".

Routines- Part Something or Other

 So, routines are a thing with us felines, and I’ve certainly developed enough of my own. I know we’ve posted about this topic more than once already, so bear with me here. Dad said, “We’ve done this already, Smudge”. Like he has any say. “You don’t want to bore them to death.” 

I said, “Listen, mister, this is my blog, and I’ll post whatever I want.” I turned away from him as I often do with him and mom. 

“But you couldn’t do this without me,” dad whined. “You need my help even logging into Blogger.” 

“Fair point, I guess, but you’d be surprised to discover what we cats can learn.” I turned and headed for my food dish to let him know this conversation was over.

Dad snorted at this, dribbling his coffee onto his bare chest (unnecessary detail, sure, but it’s been hot lately and, well, anyway) and began snickering like a lunatic. “Yeah, right. You know you can’t do this by yourself, Miss Snotty Pants. Cats aren’t that smart.”

Ooooh, the gloves are off now.

“Don’t even get me going on who’s got more brains here, father!” He knows I mean business when that one comes out. “Who’s the one who can’t keep a checkbook? Who’s the idiot who forgets things all the time? Who needs mom to write everything down for him? Hmm? Checkmate.” 

Where was I? Oh yeah, my routines. So every morning, before he even pours his first coffee, before he has his first pee (I know, I know, more unnecessary details), I get what mom and dad call giving me loves. I guess simply “petting the cat” is no longer fashionable.

 

I’m bored now. And the big guy has to get ready for work. So, yeah, routines. I’ll let my expression in this last one say it all. Smudge out.