Battle Lines:
Homesteader has had to adjust to her servant being gone all day. It has been interesting. In the morning as I get ready to leave, she's hyper active, running everywhere, talking a blue streak--and I'll bet it's blue, too. I'm not sure if she's celebrating that I'm leaving and that the cave will be all hers all day or if, perhaps, she's upset that I'm leaving again. I'm guessing the former.
She does meet me at the backfront door whenever I get home with obviously a lot on her mind. Demands to be petted, gives me the instructions on what needs to be done now that I've been shirking my duties again for another day. She follows me upstairs as I change from school garb to Acre's garb--what a joy that is!--talking all the time. I don't know what she does all day, but it must be exciting. I can tell where's she's been, either all day or at least, for the last little while. Sans motherhood, she has adopted a small white rabbit--stuffed--as her "child." At least, that appears to be the case. She takes it everywhere she goes. Licks it clean periodically. Whatever room she's in, the rabbit has to come as well. So, when I come home, wherever I stumble upon the little stuffed thing, I'm fairly certain that's where she's been spending her time. On occasion, being the ornery, obstreperous slave that I am, I will pick up the little rabbit and hurl it up the stairs. Ahh, not so fast my chubby old caretaker. Instantly, she's up the stairs, has the thing in her mouth, comes ambling back down using the foulest catonese you can imagine, and ceremoniously puts it right back where it was lying before I gave it a toss. The message is clear.
She has also developed a new trick--tackling. On occasion when she's feeling hyper, ricocheting around the house, if I'm walking somewhere, she attempts to grab me around my ankles, even grabbing my pants' leg in her teeth, in a nefarious attempt to bring me down for no gain. Curious, strange creature. Committed to mayhem. Maybe she's watching football on the computer while I'm away all day? Yes, she's the one in white, always the home team.
The real battle line, however, is over occupation of the green chair that looks out over the Acres. She must be spending a lot of time there. I mean, it is the morning sun room after all. The "kid" is there often, the chair has some white hairs from somewhere on it, and when I come home to sit there, the battle is on. It begins with the incredulous cat look--you know, the one where they just sit on their haunches and stare right at you. Then, it's up in the lap and whatever I happen to be reading must be moved. She is sitting down and no sharing--even with inanimate objects--is permitted. And then, if I get out of the chair, even for a moment, plop, in she goes and I get the defiant blueyellow glare--try to sit back down here human; I dare you." When I take the dare, oh, the language. I think she must be related to my grandfather's cat that my mom was always talking about. Or at least she was eavesdropping on my mom's stories and has decided to take up the cause for cats' rights. It has been a centuries old battle--and I think we're losing--at least, I'm fairly certain that I am. Let's just hope it doesn't return to the Egyptian stage, and they expect us to worship them as gods.
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