I'm trying to pack for the festivals and Rattlin' has decided the suitcase belongs to her.
She climbed in the MOMENT I opened it. Just hopped right in and sat down like she'd booked it. Curled up on top of my good shirt and started purring. I tried to lift her out — gently, like — and she gave me a look that could strip paint. So I left her there for an hour while I gathered the rest of my things.
When I came back, she'd moved from the suitcase to my talk notes. Sat right on top of them. All fifteen pages. Planted. Immovable. Like she was making a point.
"Rattlin'," I said, "I need those."
She blinked at me. Slowly. The way cats do when they're telling you that your concerns are not their concerns.
I eventually bribed her off with a bit of ham from the fridge. (She's old. She's earned her ham.) And when I went back to the spare room to finish packing, she wasn't there. She was at the back door.
Sitting. Staring.
Not at the garden. Past the garden. Down the lane toward the gate.
She's been doing this more and more lately. Not just at night anymore — during the day too. She'll be grand for hours, sleeping on the sofa or sitting in a patch of sun, and then she'll get up and walk to the back door and just... stare. Toward the lane. Toward the field. Toward the bog road.
I don't know what she sees out there. Probably a mouse or a bird or some perfectly normal cat thing. She's a cat. Cats stare at things. That's what they do.
I just wish she'd stop doing it at exactly the same time every day.
Anyway. Packing continues. I'm bringing too many jumpers. Mick says I pack like I'm emigrating. He's bringing a fiddle case and a carrier bag. That's the difference between us.
Slan go foill, BogLord2002
P.S. — She doesn't have kittens yet. I keep almost writing "the kittens" and I don't know why. She's never had kittens. Odd thought. Ignore me.