For those of you who have asked how my stray kitty, Saint Francis, is faring, I’m happy to give you an update. For those of you who didn’t ask, I’ll give you an update anyway. Because I’m sure you meant to ask but it just slipped your minds.
Saint Francis is faring very well. She has a new thermal-insulated, straw-filled, awning-bedecked house. It’s on our side porch where I’ve been feeding her since last October. And feeding her. And feeding her. Apparently the arctic temperatures we’ve been enduring make her hungry.
The house was ordered from Amazon by our only offspring who is allergic to cats, but who nevertheless must harbor a soft spot for them.
The house is designed for “feral” cats, a term I’ve mentioned before makes Saint Francis sound wicked, so I prefer to call her a stray cat. I’m sure she prefers that, too.
The house was also designed to drive its assembler bonkers. I had to read the murky instructions four times, watch a how-to video twice and apologize to Ivy Scarlett, our resident German Shepherd, a number of times for using unladylike language in front of her.
I finally managed to get the thing together in spite of the maddening instruction booklet which out-obfusticates the U.S. Tax Code. I suppose I was being punished for always being a bit smug about my perceived (by me) ability to put things together. Bing had no patience for the “place Tab B into Slot 9-F” type of directions, so whatever unassembled toys Santa brought the children were put together by me, usually at 3 a.m. Christmas day.
The house looks sturdy and complete, even though I have exactly five pieces left over which didn’t seem to fit anywhere. Sadly, I usually had pieces left over from the children’s toys also – I just hid them and never told Bing. I wanted to continue to bask in his admiration for my assembling-things prowess.
The trick now is to get Saint Francis to make the house her home. I’ve put some of her treats in it to lure her in and I think she’s gone in long enough to eat them, but I don’t think she’s taken up residence yet. Perhaps I should attach a sign with her name on it (as I have done with her food dish) so she’ll know it’s for her.
If that doesn’t work, she might go for some other amenities, like a tiny TV or CD player equipped with her favorite tunes. Trouble is, I don’t know what her favorite tunes are and she never lets me get close enough to her to ask.
I’ll bet she’d love the Notre Dame Victory March.