Feline Mafia

There was bird. Wonderful bird. He could smell it. The human, he had to admit was pretty good about sharing. She usually gave him a taste of the bird she called "turkey", but never enough. Whenever he tried to help himself, she thumped him on the forehead with a finger and said, "Not for cats." So unfair. He was expected to content himself with just a taste when there was a whole container of it. Sitting right there. Not to mention the irrtatingly undignified thump on the head. Then she'd close up the container and put it in the cold box.

I'm not sure what possessed me to redo my patio this year. It probably had something to do with wanting to get rid of the weeds growing up between the pavers. I'm sure that's it. Wanting not to be attacked by weeds (or possibly critters) when I sat in my yard. I had this vision of a clear area where I could have a table and chairs, a grill, and my portable firepit, and enjoy sitting and reading, or having dinner with friends, and not have to worry that the fire would set anything else ablaze. Pull up those pavers, put down some new fill dirt, and put the old pavers back.

I stumbled onto the activities of the mob in my household quite by accident. I'm sure this is the same way everyone does. Prior to this, I had been blissfully ignorant of the undercurrent of violence that existed around me. There had just been the regular, everyday violence common to homes filled with cats. The chasing. The knocking things over. The hissing and growling and occasional full-out howl of displeasure. This stuff was normal and could be ignored. (More or less.

This is my shiny new blog site!