If I couldn’t laugh at his antics...

I started out writing this blog post being serious, but the damned furball of a cat has me in a mood that if I don’t go into humorous bitching mode, I may chase Alex into the spare bedroom and close the door on him. (No, I won’t, because then I’d have to put up with his pitiful meows and scratching on the door). At the moment (10:00 a.m.; Alex and I have been up since 4:00 a.m.) the cat who is the joy and bane of my life is again outside for the fourth—no, fifth—time this morning.


Have I mentioned that it has finally cooled off here? Well, it did and it didn’t: the temperatures went down to 70 F or so, then sprang back up to again set record highs in the 90s F. However, the past few days have been most comfortable. Comfortably cool enough for the furball to jump in my bed (which he avoided when it was hot) and snuggle with me under the comforter. (Alex, the great feline blogger, wrote this about that).

With the cooler weather, my cold-natured feline (I don’t blame him: he almost died of hypothermia when he was a wee kitten) has been hassling me for I did not know what until his repeated grooming by the heat register in the kitchen clued me in that he wanted the furnace turned on.

Furnace on, cat is warm and happy, right? Wrong! Periodically he leaves his spot by the furnace register, creeps up on me, claws me to get my attention, and then goes to the door and demands that I open it for him. The furball wants to go back outside to cat around, right? Wrong again! He wants to sit in the house looking out the open door as the damnably expensive heat from the furnace that he demanded that I turn on escapes out the door.

If I couldn’t laugh at his antics, I think I’d flip out, get down on me all-fours, and purr.