Help Whether I Want It Or Not

Lancelot helping me take a photo of a quilt block.

I doubt you realise the difficult circumstances under which I post my blog entry each day. The older stories are from a file of stories I've written over the years and I simply cut and paste them into the draft window. I then read and edit the story to make sure it's easily understood by all. Other entries, like this one are typed as I go. With both types of entry I have more help than I really need.

Take now for example. Lancelot is lying, draped over my lap, head as close to the keyboard as he can get and regularly stretching a paw up to suggest a better key for me to click. I've learned to type around cats and dexterously remove paws as I go without missing a beat. From time to time Lancelot tires of just lying there and stretches his whole body. This always results in his head and upper torso ending up on the keyboard. Lancelot tends to create damage proportional to the importance of the text - the more important the text the greater the damage done.

"Why don't you put him off your lap?" you ask? Because he'll just jump right back on. It's no good suggesting I put him out of the room either. Our house is the open plan style and apart from locking him in the bedroom, where Graeme is still sleeping, he can always make his way back to me. Now let's just consider what would happen if I locked him in the bedroom with Graeme for a minute ... no, best not to I think about it. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight.

Actually, Lancelot's presence on my lap isn't the worst that happens while I type. I can cope with the wayward paws and head. I'm used to them. One thing I've never been able to adjust to is when one of the other cats decides to challenge Lancelot for my lap. It begins with Lancelot looking far too comfortable and either Guinevere or Tristan deciding that my lap is the place to be. Guinevere will then jump on the lounge near the computer; hop onto the CPU which is just inches from my lap and to the left and then tentatively bat Lancelot with a paw. Depending on Lancelot's humour at the time, he will either ignore the subtle hint to give someone else a turn or he'll growl a warning that he's not in the mood for any funny business. Neither reaction makes the her back off.

Guinevere will slowly climb onto my lap (via the keyboard) and move in behind Lancelot. She'll then begin washing him. Guinevere's usual strategy to get rid of a cat that's where she wants to be is to wash its head. She will wash that head until it's quite soggy, if the offending cat is stubborn enough to try to hold his ground. If Lancelot doesn't take the hint and hop off my lap, leaving Guinevere the sole possessor, she will begin moving closer and closer to him until she's just about pushed him off my lap. This is when I intervene. Past experience has shown me that I'll be the one to come off worst in this battle, as Lancelot digs his claws into any fleshy part of my body that comes to hand, or rather to paw, in order to get a better hold on his territory. A battle then begins with Lancelot batting Guinevere with one paw while holding his ground with claws in my leg with the other. In case you're wondering, I've stopped trying to type anything by this time. Both cats are put on the floor and I'm able to get back to work for a few minutes. Guinevere usually manages to be the one to hop back up first. Lancelot contents himself with sitting next to my chair and glaring at Guinevere who is blissfully unaware of her brother's feelings.

If Tristan is the one who wants to depose Lancelot, I get up pretty quickly and head him off at the pass. Lancelot and Tristan are sworn enemies and have been ever since Tristan arrived as a cute little ball of orange fluff three years ago. While Lancelot will put up with quite a bit from his sister, he will not tolerate Tristan even looking like he's contemplating deposing him from my lap. A battle to the death (or at least that's what it sounds like) results when Lancelot jumps down from my lap and fires the first shot. Tristan is no angel in these matters either. He loves nothing better than to taunt Lancelot and has even been known to begin an attack when Lancelot is peacefully sleeping somewhere (usually, but not always, on my lap).

So, now you understand. It's pretty much a miracle that you get to read anything of the happenings at Spring Rock.

Tristan also helping. He might look like he's just sitting there but take special note of that paw near the corner of the block. He kept dragging the block out of shape each time I tried to photograph it. I think Tristan was aiming for the artistic, abstract effect.

Home At Last

We arrived home after 11 pm last night from an almost 1,000 kilometre round trip to Sydney. I didn't do the whole 1,000 kms. I was dropped off at Josh and Frances place while Graeme, Justin and Savannah proceeded to Lidcombe. Justin has been living there for a while now and is now moving back to the Riverina. I had a great time catching up with Josh, Frances and my granddaughters while Graeme and co slaved away packing all Justin's worldly possessions in the back of the car.

I have a back injury that causes me quite a bit of pain and I was a bit of a mess when we arrived home. I crawled into bed and left, Graeme, Justin and Savannah to sort everything out. Not that there was a lot of things to get in last night. Billy recognised my signature hobble and escorted me to the back porch personally. He has assumed the role of assistance dog (chanelling his Swis Alps ancestors I reckon) and last night he stood beside me and helped me up the stairs by giving me a strong back to lean on. I was so sorry to have to disappoint him a few minutes later when, he started to hint that something was missing. Billy turned on the charm and tried all sorts of subtle (well, subtle for an over grown St Bernard) hints to make me aware that he hadn't had his tinned dog food - I told him there wouldn't be any tonight as I didn't have the strength to use the can opener. He continued to try and charm some tinned food out of me, even offering to work the can opener himself. I pointed out the lack of oposable thumbs problem and he said he'd chew through the can if necessary. Poor Billy was doomed to disappointment.

The cats on the other hand dispensed with the niceties, complained bitterly about being put outside early in the morning and not let in until some ungodly hour of the night. They then placed themselves besides their bowls, ignoring the bowl full of dry cat food and pointed out that there was not tinned cat food and it had better arrive pretty smartly. They too were disappointed and consoled themselves by lashing their tails and bashing each other up for a while.

The ferrets were already tucked up in bed when we arrived home. I winkled them out of their hammock and sleeping bag, and Savannah and I carried them into the house. I had to head Savannah off at the pass though. She was getting ready for a good play session with the ferrets despite the time of night. I had to read the Graeme/Ferret Treaty of 1998 to her so she understood that when Graeme is inside the ferrets aren't and if they are they are in their inside cage. Savannah wanted to take them all to bed with her and play with them there. This too was sadly vetoed because I doubted anyone in the house would get any sleep if ferrets were roaming free, so Savannah sadly put her share of the ferrets in their cage to join Miette and Ebony, who were already in there and claiming the best sleeping spots.

Savannah is very pro-ferrets (I divide the world up into two classes - pro and anti ferrets). I can see I'm going to love this girl.