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Sunday, September 7, 2014

Donna and TAB's Retirement Villa for Discerning Felines

It’s more than a week since our good Rocco flashed into the house as though chased by Smaug himself.

He seems pretty damned content downstairs in my basement studio. He has two perches from which he may survey all the doings — me painting, doing laundry, cleaning and such. Our boy has his dining area all set up. I laid out a scrap of canvas on which his glass shell bowls of water and tuna sit (yes, during this hard transition, the poor boy is getting tuna at most meals). My green studio chair sits nearby, covered in old towels from his outdoor nest. In the midst of these is a small mound of catnip and treats. Yeah, it’s a trap. I want to lure him down to the comfy chair so he can be all warm and snug.

I’m a conniver, I am.

This morning I brought in his heated house, wee nest (AKA cat version of a chaise lounge) and floor mat. I haven’t fully deconstructed Rocco’s outdoor shanty town. Warum? You never know when some other poor, cold creature will need a bit of shelter from the storm, eh?

Here’s what I found in his old lair — feathers, mostly blue jay feathers. Does this mean he’d, ya know, ordered lunch in? Did I find the sloppy cat bach equiv of empty pizza boxes and crusts laying about. No.

If you’ll remember, our blue jay visitors are bully boy assholes. They’ve dive bombed the porch in their rapacious efforts. Fearing for his life or, at least, what’s left of his scalp, Rocco was forced to cower under the Adirondacks. Sad, so sad.

Finding the blue feathers in his former lair leads me to a couple big fat conclusions.

The boids had moved in. I’d noticed that Rocco wasn’t sleeping in his house or in his covered living room these last few months. I just figured “it’s summer — he's prolly camping.” Em, no. Looks like those azure hued ruffians booted him out of his own damned home. Bastids!
With all that our good man Rocco’s been up against:
  • the damage he’s taken  
  • the constant need to fight off (or at least intimidate the fuck outta) interloping felines from his kingdom
  • armed and lethal blue jay squadrons
  • having to share brekkie with our very nice skunks and possums
  • and then there’s the roaming bands of carousing, voracious and decidedly thuggish raccoons 
I believe he came to the conclusion that it was time to book himself into a nice retirement community. A joint where he can kick back in his own room — read, watch TV, chase the occasional mouse and otherwise chill. Where he's unmolested by attack jays, curious critters and foxes on the look out for a midnight snack.

He’s earned that daily spot of tuna, the stray snort of catnip and his Temptations salmon treats. Oh yes he has.

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