I have officially reached crazy cat lady status. I just asked Boo “who’s a good girl?” when she replied “Meeeeeeeeee-rrow” not only did I see it as a reply, I got so excited I decided to post an update about it.
I am a tragedy. Le sigh.
So, I’m trying to avoid packing, mainly because it’s annoying and frustrating, but also because my bones are killing me. And because I just can’t be arsed. I’ve gotten to the stage where I can’t find stuff, and I can’t decide if it’s because someone in my family has snaffled it, I’ve already packed, I sold it or I just plain never had it on the first place and just dreamed I had it.
Don’t laugh, it’s happened.
So I have about 3 dozen boxes, of various sizes ranging from 1 Boo size, right up to 2 Tilf size, basically, the what can I fit in it size guide. Always useful, except in the case of hiring movers or vans.
“Yes, hello, I’d like to hire a van that will fit 3 standing Tilfs, two dozen folded and piled Tilfs, 8 Boos and a small case of vodka.”
Never going to happen.
But I decided since my family were out tonight, I could forgo the quick shower and go for a looooooooong, hot soak in the bath. So I grabbed my book, well, one of the ones I’m reading at the moment, heated up the water, and promptly leapt into a monkey bath.
Ah, sorry, a bath so hot you stand or sit there for a while shouting “ooh, ooh, ooh, aah” and occasionally flail. Very energetic and probably good for you, though maybe not scorching yourself. I normally prefer the frog method of hot baths. Instead of getting a hot, full bath, you simply run a hot bath around you, while you’re sat in the tub. A frog will leap out of hot water, but if you put it into cold water, and slowly heat it up, the frog will sit there and boil to death. Which probably explains my unhealthy love of heat.
And before anyone complains at me about boiling frogs, I didn’t. I stood on the shoulders of giants and stole their scientific knowledge. Which is apparently far preferable to actually doing any work yourself and learning that way. Apparently.
I adore animals, I love them. You know where you stand with an animal. If a dog is laid on you slobbering and wagging it’s tail, it’s probably happy. If it’s growling, it might not be, and if it’s eating your face while not drooling at all, it’s probably rabid. But at least with an animal trying to kill you because it thinks you’re a bowl of water, at least it has an excuse. People are just arseholes.
Which is why I don’t trust people who don’t talk to their pets. Not the occasional “good boy/girl” or the more often “come here/get down/off/away”, but the actual “hello *insert pet name here* nice day laying around? Hard life, huh?” I regularly talk to Boo, and I regularly spoke to Bali too, until she died, now I talk to her grave instead. Normally because there’s no one here to talk to. Full house, no conversation. Weird, huh?
Anyway, I had my amazingly hot bath, with Boo cowering next to the tub hating the risk of water, but hating the risk of being alone when fireworks go off more. I got out the tub, tried not to drip on her and plodded downstairs for booze, fags and literature. Three of my greatest loves. Aside from black comedy, proper pancakes, real waffles and lucky charm cereal. Some other things too, but they’re not important.
But the important thing here is the one everyone is missing.
Fireworks scare animals. A lot. If you’re not watching a show, sit with your pet, calm them, don’t fuss them. Ever see babies at a fireworks show? How they scream and cry at the noise? Remember seeing your first fireworks? The lights, the noise, the smell? Right, now picture all that but make it at least 5 times as loud, twice as bright and make it a smell that scares you, everyone has that one smell. That is what your pet is feeling.
Terror, panic and fear.
Don’t make your pets suffer, take your dogs and cats inside, give them a warm blanket, fresh water and food away from people and noise. Just have some common sense and empathy for your pets.
Also, any toffee apples going spare are always welcome at chez Tilf.