You'd think he's a nice cat, wouldn't you? A big furry, lovable puffball, right?
Well, you'd be wrong.
It's all an act with him. Clarky spends his days relaxin', sprawlin' out, playing the role of a lazy lump.
But at night, he's a terror.
We live in my parents' basement while we transition into becoming Michiganders. Before the Big Move, I worried about how the cats would transition into their new home. Well, I shouldn't have. I should've been worrying about me and whether I'd sleep again.
Clarky has decided it's unacceptable -- unconscionable, in fact -- that he's not allowed to go upstairs, where two other furballs live. While all the other beasts (me, Phoebe, Addy and Patrick) are sleeping, Clarky climbs the stairs and rattles the door to the first floor with all his force. When he's at the end of his wits, he comes downstairs and mews and meows and growls with all his Maine Coon might. Sometimes, he just sits under a doorway, gazing up and meowing at the boundaries. He knows those other cats are up there. The question is merely how to find them.
Most recently, he has discovered that if he jumps from the table to the ledge of the glass block window, there is a hole where he could presumably crawl into the bowels of the Mrozowski lair. (Yes, I'll be spending part of the afternoon on my last day before I start my new job cutting cardboard or paneling to plug up the hole.)
I admit it. I admire him. He's curious about life in Michigan. I am, too. So I guess we'll learn together.
And then we'll nap.
Well, you'd be wrong.
It's all an act with him. Clarky spends his days relaxin', sprawlin' out, playing the role of a lazy lump.
But at night, he's a terror.
We live in my parents' basement while we transition into becoming Michiganders. Before the Big Move, I worried about how the cats would transition into their new home. Well, I shouldn't have. I should've been worrying about me and whether I'd sleep again.
Clarky has decided it's unacceptable -- unconscionable, in fact -- that he's not allowed to go upstairs, where two other furballs live. While all the other beasts (me, Phoebe, Addy and Patrick) are sleeping, Clarky climbs the stairs and rattles the door to the first floor with all his force. When he's at the end of his wits, he comes downstairs and mews and meows and growls with all his Maine Coon might. Sometimes, he just sits under a doorway, gazing up and meowing at the boundaries. He knows those other cats are up there. The question is merely how to find them.
Most recently, he has discovered that if he jumps from the table to the ledge of the glass block window, there is a hole where he could presumably crawl into the bowels of the Mrozowski lair. (Yes, I'll be spending part of the afternoon on my last day before I start my new job cutting cardboard or paneling to plug up the hole.)
I admit it. I admire him. He's curious about life in Michigan. I am, too. So I guess we'll learn together.
And then we'll nap.
1 comment:
Say goodbye to your jugular, Cat Lady, because Clarky doesn't tolerate blog posts like that.
P.S. Clarky is packing his suitcase to come live with me.
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