Ah, Sweet Forgiveness
Charlotte has forgiven me for the fight we had this afternoon over the length of her claws. I still have a nasty little cut from the incident, and she still favors her leg a bit, but my cut has been smeared with ointment of St. Neosporin, and she's acting happy and active again. I'm giving it a few days before I assume something's really wrong. It isn't like she fell off a highly lofted bed at 9:27 AM on a rainy, windy Thursday morning. Right Pandora?
In any case, she was avoiding me for a bit after that, or she was running up to me, biting hard, and running off again like a vindictive little cuss. Charlotte, not Pandora. Pandora was perfectly willing to be ushered to the nearby hospital for a checkup. She and I have been through a lot of things.
The cat is rolled up against my thigh as I type this, her head nestled near my knee, and her purrs vibrating through the denim of the jeans I'm wearing. Her eyes are doing that slitty thing, where the film crosses over and they look alien. She's a real cute alien. She's also got two very short claws, and sixteen very long, pointed, curved claws. I lost the battle after two. This weekend, I'm forking over eight bucks to get the little girl a trim. It'll be worth it, since no amount of yelling or kicking has been able to prevent her from climbing my legs. I'm also planning to investigate a really tall scratching post, or a roll of cheap carpet I can nail to a wall or something.
Kent (that would be the sole surviving betta) is in a two-gallon tank now, which the cat cannot knock over. I left the bowl there for a day, since I had had to run after transporting the fish; when I returned, there was Charlotte, perched over the bowl, drunk on fish piss. I have decided to just leave the bowl there, since she likes that water better than the water I provide in the kitchen. The only water she prefers to the fish water is shower water. She loves shower water.
In fact, she loves the shower. When I'm in there, she's either pacing back and forth between the two shower curtains (she lost her balance one day, and fell in, which is a very funny story I might share some day), or she's in the shower toward the back, where the showerhead fails to spray. She stalks right up to the curtain of water and sits there, in a puddle of water, watching me bathe. I've always thought cats hated water, but this one apparently loves it. On her terms, of course. She was none too happy when she fell in.
Well, they've added first reads to my draft selection area. I now have an additional five a week, plus forty-seven from all those earlier days, when I wasn't even allowed to grade those. We'll ignore for the moment the fairness (?) of this situation.
This brings me up to, let's see... fifty-eight papers a week, plus the backlash of forty-seven... I'd better stop blogging and start grading. See you later.
End.
In any case, she was avoiding me for a bit after that, or she was running up to me, biting hard, and running off again like a vindictive little cuss. Charlotte, not Pandora. Pandora was perfectly willing to be ushered to the nearby hospital for a checkup. She and I have been through a lot of things.
The cat is rolled up against my thigh as I type this, her head nestled near my knee, and her purrs vibrating through the denim of the jeans I'm wearing. Her eyes are doing that slitty thing, where the film crosses over and they look alien. She's a real cute alien. She's also got two very short claws, and sixteen very long, pointed, curved claws. I lost the battle after two. This weekend, I'm forking over eight bucks to get the little girl a trim. It'll be worth it, since no amount of yelling or kicking has been able to prevent her from climbing my legs. I'm also planning to investigate a really tall scratching post, or a roll of cheap carpet I can nail to a wall or something.
Kent (that would be the sole surviving betta) is in a two-gallon tank now, which the cat cannot knock over. I left the bowl there for a day, since I had had to run after transporting the fish; when I returned, there was Charlotte, perched over the bowl, drunk on fish piss. I have decided to just leave the bowl there, since she likes that water better than the water I provide in the kitchen. The only water she prefers to the fish water is shower water. She loves shower water.
In fact, she loves the shower. When I'm in there, she's either pacing back and forth between the two shower curtains (she lost her balance one day, and fell in, which is a very funny story I might share some day), or she's in the shower toward the back, where the showerhead fails to spray. She stalks right up to the curtain of water and sits there, in a puddle of water, watching me bathe. I've always thought cats hated water, but this one apparently loves it. On her terms, of course. She was none too happy when she fell in.
Well, they've added first reads to my draft selection area. I now have an additional five a week, plus forty-seven from all those earlier days, when I wasn't even allowed to grade those. We'll ignore for the moment the fairness (?) of this situation.
This brings me up to, let's see... fifty-eight papers a week, plus the backlash of forty-seven... I'd better stop blogging and start grading. See you later.
End.
posted by Rehkmira @ 23:21
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