My house has a visitor. You. Obviously not you the reader, but 'You' the cat. Currently, You is making its home under our deck, and our attempts to catch it have usually ended in MASC (mutually assured slapstick comedy) of people in varying degrees of out of shapeness - be it dad's inability to move beyond a cantering limp, my own smoke addled lungs, or [deleted due to fear of mother taking comment the wrong way], or You's problem with spatial relationships - oh, sure, the little bugger can slip through a crack in the deck, but get it near a fence and I'm pretty sure it'll be concussed in five seconds.
We've guessed it's age at about six weeks, and I've named it 'You' because of my affection for the Discworld books...and also because it' probably the only nice thing I've said while chasing it (names of 'Fucker,' 'bastard,' and 'whore-spawned piece of shit - we're trying to help!' were ruled out en mass). Also, the family has taken to leaving out cat food (for kitten ages!) and either water or milk in an animal traveling box. All of this in the vague hope that at some point the cat's head will be so over taken by the concept of a meal that it won't notice one of us flipping the box up right and closing the lid.
Yeah - we're not very good at this. We're dog people by nature - literally, the only one of us that can't stand cats (dad) is also the only one who isn't allergic to them. The rest of us like them well enough - or, as is my case, have a standing detente with feline kind - but have trouble breathing around them, our eyes get watery, and we die. If it weren't for the fact that we taking it upon ourselves to protect little things, we would just leave the food out of a weird sense of pity. But as it stands we're warding off owls, hawks, foxes, and our own dogs in hope that we can catch You and it to a vet, or at least keep You alive during the summer months because sweet Maria it's hot if you're wearing a fur coat.
It's the dogs that worry me most, frankly - they're greyhounds, trained with factory like efficiency to chase after small furry things. And they're good enough to occasionally catch birds, let alone turning my back yard into a bunny abattoir. So, I'm thinking that unless You has got claws like Wolverine, and the placidity of a moose staring down a Mack truck, I'm not making it's odds out to be that good.
Then there's the other question, that of "What in the hell are we going to do with You?". Even though I'll admit to growing fond of the thing, we can't keep it. Our new tenants have expressed an interest in You, (wonder how they'll react to the name) but beyond supplying the occasional tin of Fancy Feast, they aren't really taking part in the grand quest we've undertaken for You. Yeah, yeah - it makes sense, what with You living on our side of the house, but my point still stands.
But hopefully I'll have some pictures of You, or maybe even have a picture of me and You by the end of the Summer. Hopefully the poor bastard gets wise. Or I have a fear that this time next year there will be a mess of Yous romping through the yard, in which case I'll be herding cats.
Which some how fits in eerily well with my life.
We've guessed it's age at about six weeks, and I've named it 'You' because of my affection for the Discworld books...and also because it' probably the only nice thing I've said while chasing it (names of 'Fucker,' 'bastard,' and 'whore-spawned piece of shit - we're trying to help!' were ruled out en mass). Also, the family has taken to leaving out cat food (for kitten ages!) and either water or milk in an animal traveling box. All of this in the vague hope that at some point the cat's head will be so over taken by the concept of a meal that it won't notice one of us flipping the box up right and closing the lid.
Yeah - we're not very good at this. We're dog people by nature - literally, the only one of us that can't stand cats (dad) is also the only one who isn't allergic to them. The rest of us like them well enough - or, as is my case, have a standing detente with feline kind - but have trouble breathing around them, our eyes get watery, and we die. If it weren't for the fact that we taking it upon ourselves to protect little things, we would just leave the food out of a weird sense of pity. But as it stands we're warding off owls, hawks, foxes, and our own dogs in hope that we can catch You and it to a vet, or at least keep You alive during the summer months because sweet Maria it's hot if you're wearing a fur coat.
It's the dogs that worry me most, frankly - they're greyhounds, trained with factory like efficiency to chase after small furry things. And they're good enough to occasionally catch birds, let alone turning my back yard into a bunny abattoir. So, I'm thinking that unless You has got claws like Wolverine, and the placidity of a moose staring down a Mack truck, I'm not making it's odds out to be that good.
Then there's the other question, that of "What in the hell are we going to do with You?". Even though I'll admit to growing fond of the thing, we can't keep it. Our new tenants have expressed an interest in You, (wonder how they'll react to the name) but beyond supplying the occasional tin of Fancy Feast, they aren't really taking part in the grand quest we've undertaken for You. Yeah, yeah - it makes sense, what with You living on our side of the house, but my point still stands.
But hopefully I'll have some pictures of You, or maybe even have a picture of me and You by the end of the Summer. Hopefully the poor bastard gets wise. Or I have a fear that this time next year there will be a mess of Yous romping through the yard, in which case I'll be herding cats.
Which some how fits in eerily well with my life.
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