Belated cat blogging, if you will. Left to right: Pete’s feet, Drusy and Topaz.

Yesterday, we all took a nap together. I’ve had a rough week with pain and by Friday morning, I couldn’t face another agonizing day at my desk so I called out and spent most of the day supine and perturbed. Pete, smarter than your average bear, took off early to run errands and came back exhausted. When all four of us lay down to nap, I couldn’t say who snored first. It was all paws in the air for a while, then I limped of to the living room for the camera. The big surprise is that Drusy didn’t follow me, as she always does.

Monday morning, the bedroom closet pushed open and out padded tiny Topaz with an ancestral ball of yarn in her teeth. She made eye contact for a moment and ran off. Later, my apartment looked like a giant blue polyester spider web. Even when the kittens catnapped, my attempts to roll up the yarn and put it away met with playful resistance. Plus, if I did get the yarn back in the closet, Topaz would just steal it back. I couldn’t be annoyed because the knotty designs around and under the furniture across three rooms were so, so cool.

Last week, I took two fantastic yoga classes. This week, I’m hoping to take three.

Topaz and Drusy have become rather assertive about joining me in my indoor endeavors. They follow me to the bathroom and tap their feet. They encourage me to exercise by nibbling parts of my anatomy that touch the living room floor. They critique my cooking technique while seated on the counter next to the stove. I don’t mind. I love them madly and wish I could take kittens to work every day; I long to think of them as beloved co-workers. When it comes to matters domestic, I most certainly do. Here, we see the lovely Drusy discovering the spin cycle. Yes, your eyes deceive you. As I looked at her, she was blurry around the edges.

As she stood atop the washing machine Sharkey calls The World’s Largest Breadmaker, hardly a solid object herself, the vibrating machine drained into the sink, puzzling the pussycat. Miss Drusy tried her delicate hardest to collect the drops dripping from the faucet attachment, though she plainly could not. She once or twice climbed into the sink to have a swat at the draining water. I assured her that all would be well and her personal earthquake would end in few aftershocks momentarily, but as a kitten she cared only about the smell of clean laundry and kisses on her tiny nose.

Topaz, lovely Topaz, my dear little bear, has a pet peeve: things should not be on top of other things. Still, madame is not unreasonable and has come around to the possible necessity of the cookbooks remaining atop the buffet. The objet to which she objects is a screw from I know not where, which makes me nervous. I keep finding them but that’s not really true, is it? Topaz plainly finds them first. So I am the Christopher Columbus of pre-found screws, and do turkeys get seasick?

In recent weeks, the kittens have become more definitely teenage. The evidence for this is that they seem to be flying past my head quite often and since kittens as a group seldom develop wings I accept that they are leaping prodigiously. While Drusy is no slouch, Topaz’s favorite living room perch is atop my bicycle seat, staring at me – unless Pete’s taller bike is parked next to mine. In that case, my seat is no longer gloriously elevated above all perch-worthy surfaces and will not do! Last night, Pete and I were talking and there was a sudden WHOOSH! Out of the corners of our eyes, we saw the tiny kitten leap panther-like. In a blink, the sweet little nutcase magically transformed into the giant jungle cat. The bicycle wiggled for a moment, then became still. The expression on Topaz’s delicate furry face reminded us we were made of meat.

Topaz: Mrrrrow.
Us: Yes, ma’am!

For her part, Drusy is an enthusiastic cheerleader. The kittens follow me everywhere, as kittens will. When I stand in the kitchen, I hear a small whoosh! as Drusy leaps to the windowsill, crosses the radiator and bounds to the top of the washing machine in an instant. I turn around and we are face to face. Miss likes to kiss, so we do. When I turn back to the sink, ingenious Topaz will be standing on the counter, hoping for yummy fish, on her way to sitting on top of the coffee machine, the highest point in the kitchen on which a cat might perch and issue demands, so she does. Drusy, on the other hand, is very easy to love.

Check out the Friday Ark at The Modulator.

In other news: Bob the actual Corgi nibbles no more. Please show Suzette some love.

I haven’t checked my phone messages in over a week but I can feel my popularity pulsing at the internet phone message center like concentrated evil. Well, maybe not so concentrated. I doubt my popularity has much of an attention span, since Dom’s birthday present languishes in Siobhan’s living room and I haven’t seen Sharkey in over a month. Fortunately, Trout and I are spending some quality time together on Wednesday afternoons. We’re taking a three-week course of private yoga classes with a teacher who almost certainly served in the Israeli Army. I enjoy meditating while trying not to imagine all the ways she could kill me armed only with her bare hands and a stick of gum.

In his own way, Pete is just as much an obsessive fussbudget as I am. He is always mulling things over and thinking up another way or another project, which drives me mad. The words, “You know what we could do?” are my cue to plug my ears and yodel, “I’m not liiiiiistening!” Of course, I am listening. I’m also keenly aware that we both work two jobs and our time together is very limited. One foot in front of the other is the only way we’re embarking on our Iron March to Global Domination, so tap dancing is right out!

It’s Thursday, the day every week when I consider giving up the struggle but don’t. Which struggle? Pick one, I think of it. First thing this morning, I had a talk with me about the litter boxes and admitted I’d been doing a – forgive me! – crappy job of keeping them tidy. Madame Topaz and Mam’selle Drusy have been exceedingly patient with my lapses. Days ago, I walked into the bathroom and realized I was standing in goo and darkness, which I partially fixed by flipping the light switch. Aha! One of the pussycats had barfed up breakfast just inside the threshold. I stuck my foot under the tub faucet and turned on the water full blast. I did not at all hop up and down muttering, “Ew ew ew ew ew” because that would be childish. Then I cleaned it up. Now that I have kittens who knock glass objects off elevated surfaces and yak on my bathroom floor, Swiffer Wet is my best friend.

Sorry, Siobhan!

Here at Casa Con Queso, this is a common sight: a pussycat body partially concealed by fabric, often accompanied the telepathic message, “You can’t see me! I am invisibuls!“

While I fear the organza curtains may not be long for this world, they were cheaper than half a prom dress so I’m lucky they don’t tear along the bias in one grand demonstration of kitteny joie de vivre. They’re not my grandmother’s drapes, after all. No, we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.

Everyone’s got a role to play and a job to do. Topaz, seen here takin’ it to Drusy, not at all invisibuls except to the camera. At this point, I’d like to take a moment to excoriate Rodgers and Hart for placing unphotographable in my head while I was a young and impressionable word nerd. They were obviously retcherous human beings, what with their corrupting the language like that.

I took out the camera when Topaz began chirping. This was so unusual a sound I figured whatever came next was bound to be exciting, and it was. The eagle eyes of the six-pound pussycat had spotted a spider, the size of the O on your keyboard, crawling along the crown molding. What followed was a festival of uproarious feline frustration, complete with leaping, flying, chirping and the spider looking unimpressed from her strategic position far from razor-sharp teeth. Audrey will recognize the framed photograph next to said feline. Please know, lovey, I grabbed it before it hit the floor.

Drusy, resting her head on Pete’s feet. They’re nice feet. Drusy taste tests them all the time. I hope it’s a phase. I was on the phone earlier with Mr. Blogenfreude and dancing like Michael Flatley because my toes are evidently delicious and Drusy must eat them! Pictured here, Drusy is not eating toes but guarding them, possibly from the other Kitteny Menace. Either that or she’s sighing and declaring Pete dreeeeeeeeeeamy. She does, you know.

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I shamelessly swiped this infodata from Barry at Enrevanche. He is well-informed, you know. This Sunday, the Carnival of the Cats will be hosted by The Scratching Post, and don’t overlook The Modulator’s Friday Ark. Thank you, Barry. Hello, Mr. Gato!

This afternoon, when I was traveling between jobs and pressed for time,Miss Topaz demonstrated her displeasure with the service around Casa Complaisancy while informing me that she had a tummy ache. In other words, she looked me in the eye and pooped on the bathroom floor. I said, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. This is my fault for overstuffing you with delicious tuna fish.” Yesterday, I foolishly opened a can among many left over from the apartment’s previous feline occupant, divided the can’s contents into approximate halves and presented them at great risk to myself to the kitten riot at my feet. I’m lucky to be alive; Topaz nibbled and kept nibbling. Then nibbled some more. Later, there was nibbling. I’m surprised she didn’t hork. She’s got style, that femme!

This afternoon, I’m packing up and driving. Grandpa turned 95 last weekend so much of the family is converging on Cape Cod for the annual Weekend of Happy Shouting. It’s sweetly unnerving to sit next to Grandpa and yelp about my job at the unnamed university, and asking him questions only frustrates him. It frustrates me that he asks my mother what I’m talking about and she says, “DOMENICA’S FUNNY, DAD. SHE’S MAKING A JOKE.” Then Grandpa pauses a moment and laughs, because he loves me.

Pete will stay with the kittens. They adore him and will nibble his toes. I cannot wait to come home and scritch three bellies.

Friday it is, and I’m so exhausted you can be Edgar Bergen and I’ll play Charlie McCarthy.

I tossed a sheet on the floor because tossing a sheet on the floor was funny. Drusy claimed it. In fact, she promptly fell asleep and stayed there after she woke up. I wondered if she might need to see the vet, but she perked right up with a little air conditioning. Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, was largely unaffected by heat. These kittens may not be as scrappy as our departed hero, who was a rock star, you know. Here, Topaz gives Drusy an affection sneeeef! sneeeef! sneeeeef! My heart just about stopped when that terrible picture appeared in the view finder screen contraption.

Topaz, our intrepid climber, claimed this box full of Dad’s spices as if she were a giant cat and the box a low-hanging tree limb, and from here stalked the nonchalant Drusy. Topaz has developed a gooey crush on Pete. Two nights ago, Pete walked through my door and before I’d even closed it behind him, Topaz was standing on his toes, exclaiming, “Ohhh, Pete! You’re dreeeeeeeamy.” Drusy’s not taking that lying down, except that she now lies down next to Pete, rests her tiny head on his lap and looks up at him with those peculiar green eyes.

I am getting very sleepy… so sleepy… I will open a can of tuna… and another… and another… I will cluck like a chicken… I won’t remember we had this little chat…

What am I doing with this can opener?

I couldn’t love the kittens more. My heart would asplode. I tell them so and rub their adorable bellies. Still, I can’t help thinking the recycling bin contains a few surprises.

Last night, I presented myself for indentured servitude at the family store. My sisters buzzed about madly, my stepfather Tom erected tents, my co-workers set up games and prizes. Someone arranged cheese and champagne grapes for captive adults to nibble and toddlers to yak up onto the carpet. We had a big, public Harry Potter party. I wore a cape!

Anya: You don’t know anything about Harry Potter, do you?
Tata: Nope!
Anya: You’re going to be Madame Hooch. She teaches the kids to fly.

I turned to display a slightly prim heroic profile.

Tata: I am Hooch!

The capes reeked like fish food flakes. Corinne and I surveyed the store’s many fragrance options and decided on a lychee-lime potion. I sprayed her down like a buggy corn crop, then turned around so she could do the same to me. Later, I hosed Anya down with the same stuff because covering a fishy scent with sugar or flowers would be a mistake, but add something citrus and you may smell like an expensive entree. So I surmised.

During the course of the evening, I discussed with an eleven year old boy the downsides to putting lacquered rocks into his hydrangea bush; with my five year old nephew, the utterly adorable Dark Lord: whether or not blue is a flavor. Jim from the Smithereens was in a chatty mood. By the time I got home, I was an exhausted, squawking mess, too tired to photograph kittens. This morning, Drusy did what Drusy does every morning: try to catch the news crawl. So far: this goal eludes her, but I fear for NBC News when it does not.

Yes, that is a pile of pocket knives and a plaster Goddess of Willendorf.

Topaz plays with food. Every morning, after the kittens suck all gravy out of chunky victuals, we’re left with moist cubes of mystery meat that dry and turn into little rocks I will enjoy stepping on after Topaz kicks them all over the apartment. You cannot see in this picture of the adorable, scheming pussycat the meaty debris field behind her. Her facial expression here is typical: Topaz is working out what tasty thing I can deliver to her next and how she will play with it all day while I’m at work. And this is good because when Topaz is bored I spend a lot of time on the business end of a dustpan and broom.

Like any two inmates confined to the same cell for 17 formative years, Daria and I developed some inside jokes.

Tata: Is your refrigerator running?
Daria: Yes!
Tata: You better go catch it!

That’s a whole phone conversation right there, complete with funny voices and a crank call script pre-dating the Hoover Dam. I didn’t identify myself or say goodbye. Funny, yeah. As years passed, the humor was still lost on other people, like Daria’s mother-in-law Annette when I didn’t realize Daria had left the kids with Annette one afternoon and selfishly went about using that free will thing.

Tata: Do you take peeektures? Well, geeeve them back!
Annette: WHO IS THIS?
Tata: Nobody!
Annette: Why are you calling here? Don’t call here!
Tata: I’ve already called here! What do I do now?
Annette: Hang up and don’t call here again!
Tata: I can’t!

That night, when I explained to my sister that I was the afternoon’s terrifying entertainment, Daria had to lie down to laugh hard enough. I am also a crappy photographer, because these kittens are heart-stoppingly cute. Here they look like dustbunnies, if heart-stoppingly cute dustbunnies I fight the urge to vacuum.

I took this picture and half a dozen unimaginably inferior pictures in the dark, where I knew pussycats were with my Extrasensory Kitten Perception. You can’t tell from this image but Drusy on the left has green eyes like sunlit moss. On the right, Topaz has eyes the color of new pennies. You can’t tell this because the paint behind them is – unofficially – like a suede coat on a handsome man and not pink in the least, no. I wouldn’t paint anything pink. Or anybody.