Mouser in spring
“It’s too cold out to really be spring yet,” my husband just informed me mournfully.
Me, I’m not so sure. We saw moulting goldfinches at our feeder last weekend. There’s a flock of grackles in the neighborhood that makes disrespectful-teenager noises at me when I go to work in the morning. The cardinals are everywhere. There are veritable holes in the ice of Monona Bay. Yesterday walking home I took my gloves off because I didn’t need or want them.
Spring is slow, here. You take the signs you can get.
The Mouser-cat graduated from kittenhood this morning, polishing off the last kitten chow we’re going to buy her. From now on, she eats what the Goths do. She doesn’t appear to mind; I gave her a little of their food to eke out the last of the kitten chow, and she inhaled it.
There is still a lot of hissy-spitty in the house. It’s never quite clear who starts what, but it often ends in cats being unceremoniously ejected from the housemonkey bedroom at five in the morning.
Still, Mousers do have their uses, even for staid offended Goths. This morning, some hours after the cat-ejection, there was a set of unearthly piercing squeals outside the door. No one was being murdered; Mouser was just making known that her breakfast was an hour late and she would like it now, please.
Minus the please.