A WhitePubs® Site
 
Tuesday Morning Coming Down
Date: February 5, 2019
I snuggled with Sir Thomas this morning—twice. First he calls and talks to me to get my eyes open and my hand out. I get my hand around his furry body and pull him against me, all about 20 pounds of him, and purr at him and bill and coo while stroking and petting him. Pretty boy. Pretty boy. My pretty boy. My Baby. My baby. He slides his head over backwards and stares into my eyes. I chuckle his chin. This is therapy for both of us. Lowers my blood pressure.
When he’s had enough—I can tell since he whips his head around really quick and then grabs one of my fingers.
Stomps off to eat.
If he grabs you with a claws-retracted furry white paw—he wants more petting.
If he grabs you with the mouthful of fangs—he wants you to stop and he will swagger off the bed.
SWAGGER.
I tried to lie there quietly. Five more minutes. Dogs are quiet in their carriers. Summer (smaller cat and the queen of the house) is downstairs. My eyelids are heavy.
Sir Thomas comes back and makes further vocal demands and I drag him against me on the bed and resume petting.
Thomas loves scritches
Eventually—Mother Nature is commanding me to get up. I am in PJs and barefoot, hair in curlers.
I decide—rain or not—the cat pans must be dumped. It is garbage day and the rain has stopped me from doing this for days. Two cats. Two huge cat pans. So I give Thomas his two Temptations treats. This is known to cat lovers as crack for cats. I also have to keep it away from the dogs.
I then heft the big cat pan up and manage to balance it while opening the bedroom door (which is on the top-level of a tri-level house). I managed to disarm the alarm. I shut Thomas and the beagles (still in their carriers) into the bedroom—for safety.
Take note of that.
Summer’s cat pan in on the mid-level. The front door is on the mid-level.
I am in my pajamas as I said. I set both cat pans on the front (and covered) stoop and go back inside. I have clothing for this—sweat pants and sweatshirt. Baggy and oversized. My hair is in rollers. I am make-up free. And barefoot. Need shoes.
I go to the lower level—I will go up and down stairs many, many times today.
I get dressed, open the garage, carry a knife and two huge black garbage bags out and up to the mid house level (which is the upper yard level.) Where my pretty new cement is.
I drop the bags and one at a time, dump the cat pan into its bag, twist the bag shut, and walk down the stairs and out to the street where the garbage cans are waiting on pick up. Walk back up the drive and up the stairs (told you) and dump the second pan and repeat down and back and climb back to the pans. One pan is a mess and the rain had picked up. I have to hose the pan. Then set it down. I am keeping the pans under the roof that shelters the front stoop.
I go back down to the garage (yep - more stairs) and into the kitchen and grab a mile of paper towels.
OK. Ten sheets – two strips.
Climb up the stairs inside the house (again) to the middle level and go out and dry the cat pans. I left the front door that doesn’t latch right unlatched but pulled to so I could get back inside from that level. (new $5,000 door and it doesn't latch)
Next, I go downstairs to the garage and heft the 23-pound bag of Fresh Step cat litter which I ordered from Chewy after I couldn’t find it at any of my stores. Hefted it to my shoulder and—you guessed it—carried it on my shoulder up the outdoor stairs to the upper level yard.
It fills both cat pans.
I carry in the cat pan for Summer—which sits right inside the front door. On a table. I have beagles.
I carry the next pan in and up and put it in Thomas’ room.
I loose the dogs and take them downstairs.
I sort of noticed they ran back upstairs as I shucked off the wet clothing. Put on a tank top. I had not put them out yet. I start calling them.
I see light at the top of the stairs and my heart connected to my brain in a full out alarm. The damn front door had blown open.
The dogs are missing.
Escape Route
I am barefoot in granny panties and a tank top and running up the stairs, carrying my jeans. SCREAMING.
Here comes Summer who has been outdoors and who knows better than to stay outdoors when I am screaming.
Obviously this had happened before.
I ignore Summer once she clears the door as I reach the top of the stairs and look outside.
Grace is peeing in the flowerbed. Can’t see Suky. I am screaming both their names. Grace---the older beagle---has made eyecontact.
Somehow I registered the fact I had CLOSED The GATE ON The STAIRS DOWN TO THE GARAGE.
My heart is thankful I have taken my blood pressure pills before I began the stair trips.
Grace runs inside.
I am still screaming.
Suky appears and runs inside. I slam and draw the bolt on the front door. They run downstairs where they belong.
They think this was lots of fun.
I chase them into the back yard.
I finished putting dry clothing on. The garage is closed.
The dogs want in which means Grace does the slam around the screen door thing.
I told her WAIT!
I am of course, back on the lower level.
There is a BANG!
I look outside.
The 4ft screen door—only 2 years old—is on the ground.
The dogs are admiring it.
Door Down
I get them in and into the lower floor pen—where they now want to be because a treat follows.
I go examine the door. I need to replace the rollers. I got it up—one upper corner loose unless the door is pulled shut.
I marched into the kitchen and poured myself an ounce of espresso.
It is barely 8:30 and I have been out of bed since 7:35.
Summer is napping on the spare office chair. The pups are napping in their blanket piles. I am a wreck and my hair got wet so I can’t go shopping—yet. The truck needs gas. Summer did try to nag for wet food but evidently decided I was screaming too much to hear her and gave up.
No rain mommy - the beagles nap - they do not like to be wet
Note: The gate for the downstairs that I use to keep the dogs from doing odd things like get out the front door? Fell apart in my hands earlier this week—literally fell apart. The screws are on the garage floor.
Summer has breakfast at last
I WANT A ONE-STORY HOUSE. I AM 77 YEARS OLD. GIVE ME A BREAK!
I need breakfast – it is almost 10AM.
My eBooks on Amazon - Hot Cop Romances
    
    
My eBooks on Amazon - Historical Regencies
   
My eBooks on Amazon - Paranormal - Including the Italian Vampire - The book written for the Fabio Fans.
  
WORKS IN PROGRESS
The Misfit - Historical Regency - Coming soon
  
Humor
Technical Textbook Re-release
|