Clementine

Clementine. An insistent, persistent cat whose intense desire to have her head scratched was only matched by the loudness of her purring.

We got her when she was a few years old - I'm fuzzy on the details - and she lived with us in all the homes we've shared - Washington Heights, our first Brooklyn place, and now here. We soon discovered she was not a lap cat and hated being picked up, but loved being snuggled up next to us, scratching her head or cheeks. She developed a habit of tapping you repeatedly with her paw to get your attention so that you would bestow the head scratch.

She liked people far more than other cats or animals; her later years were marked by stoically attempting to ignore Lyra and our kid.


She was an idiosyncratic cat. She seemed to be happiest squished up in our paper recycling box, a suitcase, or in the shower, where she sat and drank running water. Her method of taking in liquid was strange, to say the least - she'd thrust her head under the tap, it would trickle down her face, and then she'd bat it into her mouth with her paw. We'd never seen anything like it. For a long time, while His Professorship was working in another city, she'd be my hot water bottle, snuggling under the covers with me for about 10 minutes until I was nicely toasty, and then surfacing to sit next to me.

We adored her, but we still probably under appreciated her because she was so solid and reliable. She definitely lost out in attention terms after we adopted a psychopathic (and I do not say that lightly) kitten and had a child. But she was such a reassuring presence. The house feels so much emptier without her. I'm glad we had the 12 years we did with her and grateful we had the time and means to say goodbye peacefully and with as little discomfort for her as possible. And we'll eat crab rangoon tonight in honor of the time she stole one from us and caused us to argue over who had nicked beyond their fair share. What a cat.

Animals Strike Curious Poses

Or, not so much - they're more just sprawled and desperately trying to keep cool. It's bloody boiling here, and it's a sign of how bad this previous week has been that a temperature of 85F/29C seems reasonable and bearable in comparison to the 103F/39F we suffered midweek. Still, thank goodness for ceiling fans and our place being so cool. We're sans air conditioning, and this week was a good test of surviving without it. Not too bad, but still - when it breaks it's going to be grand.

Anyway, it's been too hot even for the cats to survive happily. I've had the door open a couple of days this week and they've generally chosen to stay inside rather than out, such has been the heat. So, here they are.

I had to share this - how beautiful is it? Glorious.

Honest to god tomatoes! Growing! Growing!

I've had to learn that I've been over-feeding the plants - having feared I was under-feeding, it turns out that's really not what I've been doing. Bugger. So instead I'm acidifying the soil and leaving off the feed. But the tomatoes are growing, and we have some strawberries... awesome.

Belated Catty Friday: 2

Apparently the heat is getting to the cats a little bit, too, as they're coming up with interesting ways to stay cool, as you can see...

Stupidly cute.

Catty Friday: 1

It's Friday, I don't really know what to blog about, but I'm bored of the bad stuff. And my cats are, frankly, the cutest things alive, so may as well go with them.

The Really Wild Show

Animals. Because they're important, right? I'm soppy about them, I know, but I think how you treat animals, with their reliance upon your food, kindness, or grace (or lack of fear) or their reliance upon you leaving them bloody well alone (as in some cases seen below) is indicative of your view of your place in the world and the scheme of things. Hence an unashamed series of animal loving. And no, not like that.

A vulture flying high on a hike up Bear Mountain.

Why all of my clothes are covered in cat hair.

Hakuna matata...

They look so cute, and yet...

A bit fuzzy but worth it for the (estimated) three-week-old at the mama's knees.

FLUFF!

I am not a tidy woman. It has been noted by many people. I don't desperately care about tidying, I can be highly disorganised, but I get everything done fine in the end. It may take me a while to find the stuff, obviously, but that's not the point.

But I am really truly beginning to despair at the amount of hair that my cats produce. Rock on the cold weather and their desperate need to retain it. Please, pretty please.

Sometimes...

...what you really need is a seventeen-pound cat slumped on you to make everything better.

Swifftastic

This week I have been forced into discovering the joys of a swiffer. Mainly because we are now the proud (adoptive) owners of two mightily hairy beasts. We should have called them Esau and Esau.

It has been, not to make too frivolous the trevails of those actual parents we know, like allowing two small, troublesome and attention-seeking toddlers into the home. Although I'm not convinced that toddlers would desperately jump into the shower after we've got out in the attempt to drink from the tap. Which is what they are doing, as demonstrated here:


It's all very odd.

Sort of grown-up.

But great.

I have, however, become one of those horrible people who talk about their cats in the way that people talk about their own progeny. So I shall stop, forthwith, unless solicited, after this week. I promise.