Although
he thinks the weather is too chilly to risk freezing his delicate
toes by cavorting outdoors, Benjamin BadKitten has a premature case
of spring fever. Several mornings this week, he raced in a jagged
line from the hallway, into and around our living room. After
checking to make sure I was watching, he darted behind my husband's
armchair, rose onto his hind legs, and unsheathed his claws. My
yelling always began just before he tried to turn the side of the
bookshelf into his new scratching post: “Beast cat! Stop it right
now!” After the warning – and depending on how many of his lives
he's willing to risk,-- he might vary the rest of his nut-out. He
could take one more stab (literally) at the wooden shelf, until my
decibels rise to a level he considers life-threatening. Or he might
take off for another sprint around the room, before he plops at my
feet, with his ears flat, plumed tail twitching, and green eyes
glowing.
One
morning, he added a dramatic climax to his repertoire. My BadKitten
leaped onto Lee's leather chair and started to burrow into a corner.
Before he could use his razor claws to carve a fat-cat-sized
cubbyhole – or maybe poop on the chair, – I did some leaping of
my own. I scooped him up and gave him a one-way ticket outside, by
way of the dining room door. These daily eruptions always happen
before I've finished drinking even half of my morning cup of tea, and
while I'm trying to read my Moscow-Pullman Daily News. Most cats save
their pent-up energy for nighttime frenzies, but Benjamin is a smart
and observant. He knows I need a peaceful entry into my morning so,
for maximum annoyance effect, he's willing to adjust his timing. And
yet I let him live.
I've
learned enough about the changing seasons here in Moscow to know it's
too early to start any garden-related projects, except studying seed
catalogs. In past years, I've used our dining room table as the base
for small, plastic greenhouses, and planted vegetable seeds way too
early. This year, that table has other uses. We won't be hosting any
big family dinners until this summer, because the dining room will
become our makeshift kitchen in a few weeks. Lee and I are having
some work done in the kitchen and bathrooms, including new flooring.
So we'll need the dining room to store the entire contents of our
kitchen. When you're an Italian cook, as I am, you have a big honkin'
bunch of kitchen stuff. I've stated packing away as much of the
dinnerware, cookbooks, equipment and dry goods as possible before the
project starts rolling. As the boxes mount up, I've come to
appreciate the big table.
During
my writing break in the last month, I reorganized the long desktop
and multiple drawers in my home office. The desktop runs the entire
length of one wall and partway along another. To completely organize
the entire mess, I've learned from past unfortunate attempts, was to
clear everything out of the room and deposit it all on top of my new
best friend, the dining room table. For several weeks, that poor
table groaned from the weight of reference books, notebooks, printer
paper, file folders, stationery, wicker storage baskets, bulletin
boards, keepsakes, and art supplies. I stacked everything in
teetering piles on the big table and did not put anything back into
my office until I knew exactly where it should go. I'm two weeks into
the newly ordered space and still feeling joy at the results.
We
have a little time before all the kitchen packing has to be done, so
I'm hoping our false spring will hang on a little longer. Impetuous
gardeners need to be outside in the sunshine, even if we have to wear
wool socks and fleece vests. Flocks of robins have been swooping onto
our lawn lately, and finches of many colors have been hanging out at
the bird feeder and birdbath. The mated pair of Asian collared doves
visit every day, and I regularly toss peanuts under our big oak tree
for the neighborhood squirrels.
I
want to be out there with them, clearing away the winter's windblown
twigs from my gardens and autumn's last gift of fallen leaves, soggy
now and black with decay. I want to scatter-plant some poppy seeds,
as I did last winter, and wait to see if they take root for a summer
showing. Maybe the pale tips of a few crocuses will be up, and the
delphiniums will reveal the lacy hems of their petticoats.
Maybe
I can convince my spring-feverish BadKitten to come with me. I'll
need his advice about how to cat-proof the raised beds. I'll need to
observe him before I write the job description for a new chief garden
staffer. (My sweet calico cat, Tessa the Vague, is in fragile health
and has reached emeritus status after her brief tenure last year.) I
wonder if it's illegal to note on the form: BadKittens need not
apply.
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