A kitty story

We're in process of cleaning out my gramma's/mother's basement. It's a bit packed. I still have things there, my brother does, and we have my grandmother's things and now my mom's stuff.

On Friday I went over to start removing my stuff.

My Gussiecat has recently decided that my brother's former bedroom is his. He is technically, by dint of he's been there the longest, the man of the house. However, he can't go in the livingroom, because of the twins--they are doggies, they move quickly and they are loud, and he finds this to be upsetting, particularly if they attempt to lick him. Dogs are repulsive to him. He sometimes stays with my father, he loves to be in my former bedroom, and the bathroom sometimes works, especially in the summer, because there's an old cast-iron tub.

But he's decided that the basement bedroom is his--totally doggie-free, since Robbie hasn't mastered steps, and Chancey just don't like it down there. He has a couch, the couch is his.

I went over on Friday at lunch and my mom was down, gathering stuff up to give away. Gus was in his room, on his couch, surrounded by boxes. He was NOT happy. He told me, in no uncertain terms, was this acceptable. He voiced his fears he would be evicted from his beloved couch. He stretched out to show me he requires a lot of space to conduct the business of being a tabbycat. And those boxes were not helping him be content.

I told my mother not to put boxes on that couch. Because he needs space. And he will break things if they're in his way. Usually on accident--he has a flaccid tail which does not function--but sometimes I can see in his eyes, he means it.

My mother mumbled about how the cats don't make the rules in the house.

She's done this before.

The first time was the battle of "Why we don't bring flowers, live or silk, in the house." Felix won that one. Sucker chews anything with a petal. He's cute, but he's dumb.

The second time was the battle of, "We don't bring things that have feathers on them in the house, we don't draw attention to it if we forget not to bring them, and we certainly don't hang them on the Christmas tree where the cats can smell them, see them, sense them." There were casualties of that fight. Namely, vintage glass balls . . . it was bloody . . . because I stepped on one of them in my bare feet. Score one for the felines.

These battles never end in our favor. If they do, they are hard won.

I've known Mom for almost 33 years. I know she thinks someday these cats will act like decent cuddly creatures.

I've known Gus for 10, he is who he is. He wants things how he wants them. And they will be his.

So I was happy when I didn't get the phone call detailing what 'your cat' did. I guess she took me seriously, assessed the potential victims of a box on the sofa--half of the ever-dwindling ornament stash--and left him alone on his sofa happily.

Saturday when I went over, he was sitting in the bathtub, wailing. It was as if his whole little world had been torn up and he was in his refuge of last resort. Which shows he is pretty smart--neither of the twins is too heavily into batheing, so they weren't bothering him in the tub.

And then he came downstairs to make sure we didn't annex his couch again.

But, in retribution for the affront of the day before, he spent 7 hours "assisting" us in the organizing. By assisting, I mean getting in the way, getting in essentially every place we were trying to put things to get them out of the way, yowling indignantly like we had hidden his toys, and, then after we swept the floor, he indulged in one of his favorite hobbies, the litter kick for distance.

Bless his little barn cat heart. I love that cat.