Stardate: Last day before the door-opening ceremony. Ship’s log: On course.
First up: I am flat-out flabbergasted at Fangie’s high-octane jet-fueled play-mojo. Finally on Friday night I had a chunk of time to spend with him. I was determined to go the distance. I simply could not. I went into Base Camp at 6:00. Three solid hours later, with but one, I repeat one, five-minute break only – and I know regular readers may, with good reason, be skeptical about my powers of exaggeration, but this is the gospel, believe me, I timed it – he was still going hell for leather. I simply caved. I hadn’t eaten, I needed to use the facilities, and I was dropping-down-dishrag tired. I fled the scene at 9:00. I could hear him in there, still going at it, for another half-hour or so.
Fangie loves his shoelace.
Guess he’s feeling better.
Never mind the expensive “Da Bird” toy – the string got chewed through in a jiffy, there was no interest whatsoever in the fancy feather feature – but the fishing-rod assembly and the improvised shoelace tied to it? Kitty mojo heaven.
Saturday: Rinse, spin, repeat. Four hours on Saturday. Four hours. Have any of you ever tried to play with a kitty for four hours? As Bast is my witness.
Sunday morning: The dawn was greeted with a rousing call-response gospel-stomp. Fangie took the castrato soprano voice, into the extreme upper registers, with something like scrreeeeerrrr wheeeerrrrr snick snick scrreeeeerrrr wheeeerrrrr, pause, repeat d.c. al fine. Bugsy replied with his basso profundo interpretation of “Dixie” – he is, after all, a Suthrun confederate-gray cat – with the “look-away, look-away” portion of the chorus, downbeat on “look” and “awaaaay” held long and wide for the rest of the phrase.
So since they were showing such interest in each other, I thought I’d seize the moment and play trade-the-treat under the door. I was so seized, however, I forgot I should not do that with Bugsy. Poor sensitive little soul that he is, if he gets too excited over treats before breakfast, yak city is the result. Duly yakked. OK. This, I felt, could be taken in stride. You see how I’ve grown.
Here’s Bugsy crouched by Base Camp door.
I know I yakked my treats. That was then. Where are they now?
I smell something fishy.
Why must we go through this? I am just farklempt over here!
Editor’s Note: Pedro seems to have captured Bugsy’s number, with this comment last post: “I think this softer, sweeter side of Bugs might be just a bit of insecurity. That’s not always a bad thing, especially since he’s finding comfort in you instead of doing something destructive.”
London’s got nothing.