WHEN WE WERE ABOUT ready to head down to dinner — and feed the cats — Karma began yelling most pitiably from her crate in the living room. So, after everybody had a chance to eat, we let her out for an hour and a half.
If you’ve spent any time around cats at all, you’ve seen how all high school they get when a group of young adults is confronted with a kitten. The smaller the kitten, the funnier the interaction.
I’ve got pictures, but it’s worth my life to post them on the Web, as they show the state of our housekeeping at the moment. I.e., not at all. I have been threatened. Not in so many words, mind…
Jazz seems to be the most bent out of shape over the whole thing. She followed Karma all over the first floor and hissed and growled at her. Loki, on the other hand, went upstairs and went to bed. (Reminds me of the Garfiled punchline. “Garfield? He ate the buffet and went to bed.”) Belle (the all-black longhair Basement Cat) slunk around exuding Darth Vader vibes. Cue the big string-and-brass fanfare and the heavy mechanical breathing. Oliver pranced around like a nancy boy, all concerned. I really think he will settle into a nursemaid routine. Aqua was so put out she refused an invitation to come up on the couch for petting with an if-looks-could-kill glare. “I’m on patrol here, don’t distract me.”
In short, the new kid was a hit with the in crowd.
But all too soon, it was over, and Karma had to go back in the crate. She mewed a little in protest, but soon was occupied with her toys and scratching post.
Sooner or later, she won’t be so accepting and will have to be let out for longer periods. Sooner, I think.