Friday Cat Blogging: Crazy Diamond Edition


Pete has, as a reporter once remarked of Olga Korbut, a metabolism like a raging wildfire. After those three meals most of us eat, Pete scavenges a fourth around 9:30 or 10 p.m. Two days ago, I threw a cloth napkin on the floor and made a ruling: all dinners made must include sufficient vegetables and meat such that a fourth meal may be easily prepared for him. Also: roughing the kicker. Five yards.

Sleepy Topaz.

In an effort to enforce my own ruling, I made tortellini and opened a can of petite peas. Opening a can of peas at my house is like Christmas morning and Chinese New Year rolled into one. Topaz spins around at my feet, chirping gleefully. Drusy stands on the washing machine, breathless and alert. Suspense is killing them! I pour the water into Topaz and Drusy’s bowls, which is tougher than it sounds because now both cats are trying to climb into the can with very sharp edges – but I prevail! Water in both bowls, both bowls placed on the floor. The pussycats rejoice! The pussycats drink deeply! Tonight, pussycats feast on the water of their enemies, the petite peas.


A funny thing happens when either Pete or I gets down on the floor: Drusy gnaws on us. It’s quite adorable and doesn’t hurt a bit unless she gets overexcited and uses her claws on your un-fur-covered thigh, but such is life! The cats come running now if Pete grabs the camera and sits on the floor. As you can see, Topaz is exhausted after mere moments of tousling with Pete. She claimed the box and nodded off.

Craaaaaaazy Drusy.

Drusy claimed Pete and did the backstroke; everyone was happy.

Last night, I baked pumpkin bread. Turns out the pussycats are mad for canned pumkpin, too. Yes, I used canned. It was on sale for like a quarter and it didn’t have dents or anything. Don’t go all “A Mr. Death is here from the village. Something about the reaping?” and “It was the canned pumpkin” and “Oh, I’m most dreadfully embarrassed.” I had some this morning. It was very tasty with a moist crumb. Also: holding. Five yards.

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