Taking things "litterally"

I really want to make this clear. I've been fortunate, in the aftermath of Demeter's fall last January, that the Resident Fan Boy has taken up a number of my chores.  

In the early days, that was nearly all of them, because I stayed with Demeter during the first week, and went in four times a day after that, to assist with rising and breakfast, lunch, supper, and the bedtime routine.  

One evening in early February, I came home through the dark streets, thinking dark thoughts.  In our apartment, the main bathroom door was closed, and younger daughter's bedroom door wide open, the signal that she was taking her evening bath.

But where was the Resident Fan Boy? The living room was silent and deserted.  I turned right and entered our bedroom to take off my coat, still not seeing my husband.  I started to get a little alarmed.

Around the corner, there he was, on all fours, in the small dark passageway that serves as a walk-in closet, and leads to the ensuite toilet.

My heart nearly stopped.  It was less than two weeks after Demeter's accident, and I thought:  He's hurt; he's collapsing in pain or illness; he's ----- cleaning the kitty litter box....

On all fours.  Having scooped poop onto sheets of toilet paper he'd laid out on the floor.

"What on earth???" I shrilled.

I realized, in a slightly horrified flash, that, in all our years of owning pets - two of which have been cats -- the RFB had never actually sifted kitty litter. (How is that possible?)

Brushing this epiphany aside, I did a quick demo of how I balance the cat-box on the sink, and transfer the flushables with a trowel into the toilet, before sweeping out the cubby, where, judging from the amount of spilled litter, our cat evidently rehearses the burial of our lifeless corpses.

"I wondered how you managed every night," remarked the RFB.

Y'know, he could have asked.

A tale (tail?) of two remakes

Firstly, you need to understand how deeply the 1994 film version of Little Women and the 1998 television film version of Cats are imbedded in the childhoods of my children. The Thomas Newman score of Little Women was part of my "birthing tape" for second daughter; that's how much I loved the music. Elder daughter, of course, adored the movie from a very young age. As for Cats, we had a wavering VHS of the 1998 television version, which both girls played over and over.

I've probably told this story before, but when elder daughter was taking ballet lessons at age six, younger daughter and I would wait in the office area, where we could catch glimpses of the lessons. One evening, I watched in disbelief as younger daughter, age two, stretched and arched in the darkened corridor outside the studios, clearly imitating this moment:

I had been rather dreading the 2019 version of Cats. Despite my daughters' enthusiasm, I'd been exposed to this musical years earlier, and frankly, I'm not overly fond of it, and the director Tom Hooper's version of Les Miserables is two hours and forty minutes I'll never get back. This version of Cats has been assailed by horrendous (and hilarious) reviews. A pack of elder daughter's musical-loving, but Cats-loathing pals in Hades got drunk to go see it.

There were few people in our Victoria matinée -- they appeared to be sober. And oh, it could have been worse. The mistake, I think, was trying to give Cats a plot. Also sticking out like a sore thumb, hip-hop dancers in 1930's London. And Rebel Wilson, whose schtick didn't quite work here.


However, I didn't mind most of the performances. I was fine with Taylor Swift as Bombalurina, and even her song, co-written with Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber. I've always been a fan of Steven McRae, a premieur danseur of the Royal Ballet, and his rapid-fire tap-dance as Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat (which isn't a tap-dance in the original musical). Sir Ian McKellen as Gus the Theatre Cat? Perfect, of course.

The Resident Fan Boy slept through the bulk of the movie, claimed he hadn't, and was hurt when I disagreed with his opinion on performances he hadn't seen. Younger daughter adored it, of course. Elder daughter resolutely refused to see it, but insisted that we all attend the latest version of Little Women together.


I had been worried by the trailers of this Little Women, that they would add anachronistic music and dance moves. Actually, they stuck quite closely to the period -- Jo's clothes are a little more mannish than you'd expect, but that's in keeping with Alcott's Jo. Demeter, who didn't attend, would have been driven crazy by the use of flashbacks, as the movie begins in the 1870's, and Jo remembers the events in episodes, which are filmed in a golden filter; the "present" is signalled by a blue filter.

I'd also worried, having read reviews, that it would be too similar to the 1994 version. I adored that version, but I don't go to cinemas to see copies. All the things in the 2019 Little Women that the critics praised seemed to be what you could say equally of the 1994 Little Women. However - I remembered with a pang - 1994 was 25 years ago. Each Little Women - the 1930s Katherine Hepburn one, the 1949 June Allyson one, the rather ghastly 1970s one with, heaven help us, William Shatner as Professor Bhaer - reflects its time. This current telling is a post-#MeToo take on the story. Although faithful to time and place, the injustices of being a woman in the late 19th Century are voiced a little more loudly, clearly, and insistently than even Louisa May Alcott would dare.

A young woman on one side of me sniffled a little at Beth's demise. Younger daughter reported that the Resident Fan Boy wept quite a bit. I didn't weep, but I was moved. Elder daughter, seated on my other side, was not. She pronounced a definite preference for the 1994 Little Women, so much a part of her childhood. She felt Timothée Chalomet was miscast as Laurie, because, in her opinion, he didn't mature with the part. Younger daughter clearly thought that Timothée Chalomet was the perfect Laurie, no doubt because she thinks he's dreamy.

Well, they're sisters, and very different - like the March girls. For my part, I'm glad my first exposure to Little Women was through the novels themselves. This seems to allow me to not get too attached to the films, as Jo, Meg, Beth, and Amy were known to me long before. I won't mind seeing this Little Women again. I can't say the same for Cats, but I have a feeling I'll be sitting through it whenever younger daughter has the yen.

A moment's paws

When I look at older pictures of family and friends, I find myself peering at the backgrounds:  kitchens, living rooms, bedrooms.  Odd memories are triggered by the sight of long disappeared place-mats or floor tiles.

It occurred to me a few weeks back that there are little details about this apartment building that will vanish from my memory -- unless I do something about it.

So I snapped this photo of the doorstop in the laundry-room downstairs.  There's probably some story about it that I'll never know.

A warm feline

During the last run of what I fervently hope are the final hot days of the year -- Hades can still be hit with a humidex into October -- I was taking the Accent Snob for his midday sniff-and-pull around the block. Suddenly, up ahead, I spotted a cat sprawled in a shady patch of sidewalk, directly in our path.

It saw the Accent Snob, and its ears twitched. The Accent Snob paused uncertainly.

"Nope," I told him. "I'm sticking to the shade. Let's go."

As we approached, the cat rolled sinuously to its feet and glided toward the dog, who halted again. The cat squinted and sniffed the Accent Snob's nose, then stroked its back against the AS's front legs before dropping to the pavement and rolling languorously onto its back.

"Whaddaya know?" I remarked to my bewildered pet. "A cat who likes dogs!"

Fair enough. The Accent Snob's past is a mystery to us, but we suspect he's lived with cats, and to tell you the truth, is rather catlike himself, although we'd never say that to his face.

That may have been the last day I will hear the cicadas this year. In the evenings, the crickets chirp on, although they'll probably be silent by Hallowe'en.

Kitty tonic

In a summer of house-sits gone patchy -- and sometimes just gone -- here's a feline oasis.

Things that could be improved with cats

I was watching It's a Wonderful Life tonight. It's not my favourite Christmas movie (that would be Scrooge with Alistair Sim), but it's full of wonderful moments. I particularly love the bit when the angel in charge of Clarence (Angel Second Class) tries to explain his shortcomings to his superior: "Sir, he has the IQ of a rabbit!"

If it were my favourite movie, I'd invest in a DVD. As it is, it takes three hours to show the darn movie on television because there are fifty minutes of commercials. That got me to thinking of this, which showed up on YouTube recently:



"People don't want to watch ads; they want to watch cat videos." Damn right. Come to think of it, that's what It's a Wonderful Life is missing --- cats...

Wanna make thumbthing of it?

Oh, but I'm damp and crabby. In the true and vicious tradition of April in Hades, we were forced to walk to the bus stop this morning through a precipitation which Environment Canada describes as "wet snow" but that is actually thick white missiles that go plop-plop-plop like a blizzard of bird-droppings. By the afternoon, I was forced to go out again in what was now cold, pelting rain.

I hadn't had enough sleep because I stayed up to watch The Killing and The Borgias. The former is an American retelling of a Danish murder-mystery series filmed in Vancouver. I recognise next to no one in the cast, but so far, it's compelling. The latter is clearly a very expensive production, features three fabulous actors: Jeremy Irons, Derek Jacobi, and Colm Feore, and each shot looks like a High Renaissance painting. Then they lost me. In a beautifully photographed, sumptuous recreation of Rodrigo Borgia's procession on his way to being crowned Pope, I listened in disbelief to the background music which was Zadok the Priest. You know, that coronation anthem that George Frederick Handel composed in 1727? They even played it kind of softly, as if hoping no one would notice. Well, they didn't sneak it past me, and then they killed off Derek Jacobi's character, so to heck with them and their bleedin' anachronisms.

Boy, I'm cranky. So I'm putting myself to bed early tonight and leaving you with this gem which is undoubtedly long past its expiry date in Britain:I like this so much, I've friended Bertram Thumb-cat on Facebook. So there.

Not my furry child

. . . The morning came, and left
The sunlight on my step like any normal
Tradesman . . . . - Christopher Fry, The Lady's Not For Burning

It wasn't how we expected the day to end. Oh perhaps, with twenty/twenty hindsight, the signs were there, but they weren't apparent that sunny Monday morning. The Resident Fan Boy had taken time off work because Demeter was arriving from Victoria that day, in preparation for a 26-hour train trip out to Halifax with younger daughter to spend Canadian Thanksgiving with older daughter.

We'd booked a place at our local animal hospital for our cat, who has stayed there before. I was getting a little nervous though, because she hadn't been eating over the weekend and had spent the better part of the previous week sleeping even more than usual. Not unduly alarmed, I phoned the vet and managed to get an appointment for midday, so we accompanied younger daughter on the hour-long bus ride to her school and returned for some last minute guest-room cleaning before slipping the cat into the soft carrier for the ten-minute stroll to the clinic.

The vet is new to the practice, but knows our cat from recent stays and inoculations, calmly noting the difference in her. Until she looked into the ears.

"Oh, now, that's not good news," she said, before assuring us that most pet-owners don't pick up on jaundice, although in the natural daylight of the examining room, we wondered how we could have missed it. We agreed she would be admitted and signed the paperwork for more tests before heading home to await the results. But by then, I had a pretty good idea of what was coming.

It came a matter of minutes before we were due to board the bus to retrieve younger daughter from school. I listened briefly to the blur of descriptions of possible medical interventions, but recognized the kindly hesitant tone, so I asked my standard question: "If it were your pet, what would you recommend?"

"I'd say good-bye."

A quick conference with the Resident Fan Boy during which we agreed he'd fetch younger daughter. A hasty farewell at the door. I did a quick round of the house, stashing a wad of tissues in my pocket and donning the twenty-first century equivalent of a black armband, a pair of sunglasses, before retracing my steps back to the animal hospital on this sunny early October afternoon.

It's clear they have this down to a fine art. The worst bit is signing the papers and paying the bill which, obviously, must be done beforehand. Then they ask you if you want some time alone. I didn't know, never having done this before. (I've had pets euthanized, but that was a long time ago before they let the owners stay.) So I said 'yes', and they brought her in wrapped in a crimson felt blanket. She looked calm, but bewildered. That may have been partially due to the fact that I was dripping tears on her head, despite my best efforts to be a solid comforting presence. As I stroked her and spoke to her, I noticed the bandage on her leg which held the cannula ready to take the injection. I scratched her gently under her chin and behind her ears for one last time, then went to the door and gave a quick nod to the assistant.

It's an odd thing, cradling and crooning to a live animal, then the realization that life has left the body. I've only been present at two human deaths, during the time I volunteered at the hospice in Victoria, and in both cases, there was no dramatic clear-cut moment between being and not being. The vet checked with her stethoscope and told me she was gone, and I could see as I stepped back, by the splayed white paws, that this was true. I left quickly after a swift hug from the vet, sunglasses in place so I wouldn't upset the owners with living animals in the waiting room.

When my elder daughter was three, she kept requesting a "moving cat" and we realized with sinking hearts that she meant a real one. My mother never could deny anything to her beloved granddaughter, so when my younger daughter was one, off went five-year-old elder daughter with her grandmother to the SPCA. It was time, thirteen years later, to break the news to my now eighteen-year-old at her university in Halifax. I tried to do it in gentle stages by text message. She apparently staggered back to her dorm and laptop where she contacted me by Skype, presaged by the sound of her ragged weeping through my computer speakers.

After the bootless exercise of trying to comfort elder daughter through a computer monitor, it fell to me to break the news to younger daughter as she arrived home from school with the Resident Fan Boy. She retreated to her bedroom and shut the door. I emailed her teacher and printed up several pictures for her to take to class the next day. Then I headed out to the airport on the bus, to tell my mother, who had been airborne when all of this happened.

The most surprising reaction came from the Resident Fan Boy, a dog-person marrying into a cat family. Yet, several times over the next three days, I'd come across him weeping, usually in the kitchen in the morning. "It was our time," he said. I, too, had poignant stabs, still do: when I hear movement on the stairs and think she's coming up, when I look for a black form curled in the laundry basket, when I shift carefully in bed around the ball of warmth between my ankles. Which isn't there. On the whole, though, I felt distanced and peaceful. Is this because I was there for her final minutes, because I saw the limp body on the examining table and knew it was beyond pain and fear?

There are people who are a bit dotty about their pets. They buy them clothes and trinkets and call them their "furry children". I beg to differ. Yes, both children and pets deserve love, shelter, exercise, stimulation, and protection. But children are not pets, nor are pets children. I have children. I have never put their food in bowls on the floor before locking them in and going out for a few days while having a neighbour check in on them. I don't have them do their business in a sandbox in the basement. My daughters will, eventually, vote.

There is, however, a cat-shaped hole in our lives. It is a unique shape, the right size for a little black cat with white stockings and garters. It will not be filled, even when we get other pets, who will in turn, leave their own holes. Because loss is the price of love, whether for animal or human. And when the day ends, in the expected or unexpected fashion, love may be indeed all we have left. (Goodbye, Julie.)

The loneliness of the long-distance house-sitter

I believe I've established that my house-sit this year has been somewhat stressful. One factor (of many) in my disquietude is my responsibility for two outdoor cats. I'm an indoor cat person, and I have cared for outdoor cats before at the half-dozen or so houses I've sat over the past nine summers. However, I'm required to let the feline denizens of this home out for the night, and to "strive" (as the house directions put it) to get them in during the day.

The reason for this? A former cat of this household was killed by the dogs next door. The neighbours in question reportedly declared that they had found a cat claw in the nostril of one of the dogs. I'm not sure whether they were helpfully providing gory details or trying to suggest that the dogs were provoked.

Recently, I returned to the house late one afternoon to discover a sheet of paper in the screen door:
Hello there,
We have been over a few times to introduce ourselves and let you know that we are having a party this evening and we will be playing volleyball. It is difficult not to be noisy. Sorry in advance if we are.

I had been warned of this too. In addition to the tension over the chewed-up-and-spat-out cat, there have been confrontations between my hosts and the party-heartys next door. Apparently the better half of the couple asked if it were not possible for the people living here to simply sleep later, not understanding that the military generally frowns on this.

So after dinner, when I headed out to harvest raspberries from the backyard, the volley-ball game was in full swing. Shortly thereafter, a half-pint appeared.

"Uh, can I help you?"
"I'm here to look for the ball."
"No ball came over over the fence."
"They sent me over to look for it. Gee, you have nice flowers."
"Yes, the lady here did a nice job. There isn't any ball here."

At this point, a head appeared at one of the back gates. I was not astonished to note that it was blond.

"Hiiiiye! We're from next door; we haven't met yet!"
"Yes, I got your note..."
"Our ball came over the fence."
"Uh, I saw no ball come over."
"Oh yes! I smacked it over! Can you open this gate?"

"I'll open it for you!" chirped the cherub. "These leaves are really soft!"

He'd been coached well. I, as a mother of a special needs child who is frequently ignored or bullied by similarly appealing moppets, recognized the studied charm.

Blondie and nipper embarked on a tour of the large backyard which was, as I kept pointing out, devoid of volley-balls. Finally, someone shouted that it was embedded in the shrubbery on their side. They vanished.

I rinsed the raspberries and listened to the shouts and thonks outside. It was oddly comforting and I even summoned up the courage to tackle the front yard with the lawn-mower before the light faded.

When I stashed the machine in its place, I spotted unfamiliar shapes on the grass beside the raspberry bushes where I had laboured earlier. It appeared to be what was left of a rabbit's head and a whole field-mouse, along with clumps of fur. I guess it was dropped by one of the red-tailed hawks I've seen soaring in gyres high above the roofs. I'm certainly glad I wasn't standing underneath when this stuff plummeted from the sky. Another reason for keeping those cats inside during the day. I don't think the hawks hunt at night, although on quieter nights, I've heard them calling to each other from the tallest tree-tops.

This was not a quieter night though. Well past midnight, the voices floated up through the bedroom window, and alone with my younger daughter in this huge house, I actually slept sounder than I have since arriving.

My cat is a Pill

Fourteen more posts for NaBloPoMo. Piece of cake. I have to get ten more anti-biotic pills down the gullet of my cat.

A couple of days ago before sunrise, I bundled her into her soft carrier and trotted the kilometre to the vet's while saying soothing things to her such as: "Yeeees, I know...We'll be there soon...It's only for a day....I'll be right back for you this afternoon..." All of which she probably heard as: Raaar-raaar-raaaaar....Raar-raar-raar-raar.... Not soothing at all; pretty sinister, actually.

Anyway, it was a dental procedure and ended up costing several hundred dollars. When I came to pick her up, the vet was ready to give me instructions on giving her pain medication and anti-biotics. This involves smearing her "inner ear" (they meant the inner surface of her outer ear --- thank gawd) and..."just grasp the back of her head, tilt it up and her mouth will open, so you can push the pill as far as you can." I don't mean to sound churlish --- okay, maybe I do --- but given the amount of money we'd just spent, I think the vet should come over and administer the medications herself. Push the pill as far back as I can? She's met this cat, right? This is the cat we've been bringing in for nail-trimming, because she won't let us do it anymore.

I toddled the kilometre back in the setting sun, cradling the soft carrier and noticing the absence of distressed miaows that had accompanied the morning's expedition at regular intervals. When I let the cat out of the bag, it became clear why. This was one stoned kitty. She'd stagger a few paces, then lie down. When I picked her up, she was like a furry noodle. She'd stare past my shoulder at unseen phantoms, her pupils dilated, cloudy, and bewildered.

We managed the first pill with relative ease, and congratulated ourselves --- until we located it on the kitchen mat the next morning. The second pill was a bit more of a challenge; she spat it out a couple of times and it was practically dissolved by the time we got it to stay. By the third session, she had recovered considerably.

This is a Taurus cat. Of course, I'm a Taurean too which means immovable object meets immovable object. I get the Resident Fan Boy (a Virgo) to help me. I restrain the cat and pry her mouth open so she can emit sounds like: "MmmmRRRRRRRRRRmmmmm! Haaaaaaaah!" Cat cuss-words. Every now and then she slashes out with her paws. Thank goodness we thought to include a nail-clipping in the dental session. We've learned through hard experience that, after the pill has come out two or three times, I need to keep her jaws clamped shut for several minutes, then watch her for several minutes more in case she works it out again.

This morning we tried it in a tiny spoonful of soft cat food (a special treat for her). She sucked the food away and spat the pill out and after we finally got it down, we got to sponge "Chicken and Lamb Formula for Senior Cats" off her head. And all the time, we're pleading: "PLEASE, darling, it's for your own good..." which probably sounds like: RAAAAAWR-rrrr-rrrr-rawrrr...

I haven't applied the pain medication because I haven't actually seen evidence that she's in discomfort, but as I gaze at the impossibly long tin foil sleeve containing the remaining (gawd help us) ten antibiotic pills, I'm seriously considering it if it can get her stoned enough...

Did I mention the vet wants us to brush her teeth too?

Fudging with Felines

I actually was writing quite a creative post in my mind as I accompanied younger daughter on the hour-long trek to school this morning. However, when I got home two hours later, there were several messages from the family history sites I frequent, which led to my checking my data, which resulted in discovering more christening records, which showed me where a pair of my great-great-great-grandparents were living in London between 1830 and 1838.

So I'm cheating. I'm fobbing you off with this recent picture of my cat. We were forced to kennel her this summer when the lady who usually takes her in was taken ill. I was convinced she would take the usual cat sort of revenges for this: hairballs just where I will step on them for one unpleasant example, but actually, she's just lovely, purring steadily for the past three weeks.

Let's see how I do tomorrow. (I have another cat photo, just in case...)

Things that go bump (and scrape) in the night (and early evening)

Dear Oh Deer
Originally uploaded by rayvensmoon

The Teen-cats have not mended their ways. I've sort of passed the point of worrying myself sick over them, as so far they're turning up in the morning, hungry and mildly indignant that I haven't let them in sooner. Say, by getting up at 3am...

I've got other things to worry about. Last night, after reading younger daughter to sleep with Little Women, I sat quietly on her bed, making sure that she had descended into dreamland deeply enough to risk turning the lights off. That meant it was quiet enough for me to hear the bumping and scraping against her window. Which is on the second floor. With no trees nearby.

I'm not thrilled about being alone in a house at night at the best of times, let alone a large house on a semi-rural cul-de-sac past eleven in the evening. I listened incredulously for several seconds then struck up the courage to raise the blinds.

Nuthin'. I nervously prepared myself for bed and made the rounds, shutting all windows on this chilly night, and mulling over how much I hate going out into the black front and back yards to fruitlessly call for the Teen-Cats. In addition, I'd forgotten it was Garbage Pick-up the next morning, so had the extra pleasure of collecting the contents of the various bins, transporting them to the ill-lit garage, then, having discovered that I've forgotten how to open the garage door, hauling two large cans back into the house, down the hall and out into the dark driveway to the curb. I spotted one, then two cat silhouettes in the yard across the street and softly called before realizing they were too large to be Winsome Teen-Cat. (I'd corralled Ginger Teen-cat earlier.) Another movement caught my eye, and the ghostly shapes of a doe and her fawn hurried into a space between houses.

Eventually, fatigue overcame my night-time terror and l lulled myself to sleep with the local rock station, waking up each hour to hear how far they'd gotten in their Led Zepplin documentary.

I checked the side of the house this morning to see what was under younger daughter's window. Just a makeshift kind of shelf for kindling --- although if a man stood on it, he might be able to brush the window with his fingers. Or machete....

Early this evening, I went out back to hang younger daughter's swimswuit on the line and startled a doe grazing on the other side of the house. She galloped to the chainlink fence, leapt like a gazelle (or a deer, actually), and hung herself up on it briefly before limping into the Shasta daisies. I watched as she clopped unevenly across the road to munch on the neighbour's lawn. I understand the deer are a nuisance to gardeners, but I do hope she's all right.

You don't suppose she leapt on top of the kindling shelf last night, about 11 pm, do you?

I tot I taw a putty tat

It's my third morning in the second of our two house-sits of our eighth strategic retreat to Victoria to a) preserve what little sanity I have left; b) avoid as much of the humid Ottawa summer as I can; and c) visit Demeter. Reason "a" has been under fire this week. Due to an overlap in house-sits I've actually been responsible for two houses, three cats and one gerbil for two days of this week. Now I'm down to one house, two cats and one gerbil. This should be a relief; I've just let the two enchanting bird-killers out after their non-bird breakfast.

See, we have an indoor cat. I remember not long after we adopted her, a brother of one of elder daughter's schoolmates was horrified at our cruelty: "You keep her locked up?" It wasn't that I was unsympathetic. All three cats under my care this week are outdoor cats, and they evidently enjoy their excursions. (Just try getting them back in; but more on that later.) I don't remember what I told that young boy then. I may have mentioned racoons. We were still living in Victoria then and a racoon family made irregular visits to our backyard. Racoons can tear up a small pet nicely. Cougars (also seen in our neighbourhood) won't leave much to tear up. It's rare for indoor cats to get fleas, and there's always the issue of the bird population which, I'm given to believe, is decimated yearly by domestic and feral cats. And indoor cats undoubtedly live longer, no matter what you may think about their quality of life. Our neighbourhood in Ottawa is littered with missing cat posters.

However, these are outdoor cats and my job this summer is keeping them alive until their owners return. "Getting the cats indoors for the evening is tricky," chirruped my long list of instructions for this particular house. No kidding, lady. I've cared for several cats in my house-sitting career, but the two feline non-occupants of this particular house are naughty adolescent cats. Witness recent events:

Our second day in House-sit #2, we return from a day of swimming lessons and checking on House-sit #1 and resident elderly creaky cat. Ginger Teen-cat and Winsome Teen-cat appear from garden, enter the house with us, only to be informed that it's only 3 pm and their dinnertime is at five. Both vanish into the backyard.
4pm: Winsome Teen-cat checks in to see if I meant it about dinner. I did.
5pm: Winsome Teen-cat digs into dinner, and since there's no sign of Ginger Teen-cat, has a good go at his dinner. Odd, since the lengthy list of instructions insists that Ginger Teen-cat is the glutton.
6pm: Winsome Teen-cat makes a quick appearance to butter up All-powerful Tin-opener and Food-giver (that would be me). No sign of Ginger Teen-cat.
7pm: See 6pm.
8pm: As I sit in a garden chair chatting to Resident Fan Boy and Elder Daughter in Ottawa, Winsome Teen-cat strolls up from side garden, hops into my lap for an ingratiation session, then streaks due east and vanishes. I worriedly mention to RFB that I haven't seen Ginger Teen-cat for five hours, particularly worrying as he hasn't shown up for dinner.
9pm: As darkness begins to fall, I rattle the food tin. Ginger Teen-cat appears out of nowhere. No sign of Winsome Teen-cat.
10pm: Getting a tad frantic; it's been a long day; we need to get up early for swimming (having missed this morning's bus --- thereby hangs a tale [not a cat's tail]; younger daughter is dragging herself through evening toiletry routine, and I'm in the back yard, rattling the tin and calling, with visions of racoons and cougars in my head. Can't resist checking out front door, so Ginger Teen-cat bolts between my legs and ignores my pleas. I slam and lock the front door, having first checked it to see that I haven't left the key in the lock. Like last night...
11pm: One more desperate try. Damn their reflective almond-shaped eyes.
4am: Check front door to be effusively greeted by Winsome Teen-cat who seems very pleased to see me. My own feelings are somewhat mixed. No sign of Ginger Teen-cat.
7am: Ginger Teen-cat strolls in as if nothing whatever is amiss.

This may be a rather long summer. They both came in together last night at a reasonable hour, although they lolled hopefully by the front door until I turned the lights out and trod meaningfully upstairs.

I have changed the names of the felonious felines to protect their doting owners. Likewise, the above photo is not of Ginger Teen-cat, but a picture I've stolen from the Internet, namely a blog specializing in cat photography. I'm not sure if Shiro Ang is personally acquainted with the anonymous ginger tom, but I'm sure he's a rascal. The tom, that is. If I ever figure out how to upload and then remove photos from a computer that is not my own, I will desist from borrowing other people's work, but maybe my crime is less if you go visit Shiro Ang's blog and leave a nice comment.