Thursday, February 24th, 2011

image of Bonkers the cat

And again: Kitty!

Because I wanted to make it up to you for all the political crap coming out of Wisconsin lately. We can do the interwebs the way it’s supposed to be done.

Bonk! | 6:28 am CDT
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Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

After a scalding hot shower and a hot cuppa java, I think I may once again return to the class of warm-blooded creatures. Last night was about five million years long and it was all because the cat in the middle of the bed kept hogging the covers, keeping me awake most of the night. It’s very difficult to sleep when half of you is toasty warm but the other half of you has become a meat popsicle. This has got to stop.

I didn’t used to mind. I’ve tolerated a cat in the middle of the bed for as long as I’ve been married. My first cat also used to sleep between us, and that was back in the days when we slept with our arms around each other and our legs all tangled up. We’re not any less in love now, it’s just that our bones are not that flexible any more. Catface was usually somewhere else when the lights went out, but in the morning she would be well and truly wedged deeply between us. We never did figure out how or when she did that.

Our current cats also creep into bed sometime after we curl up and start sawing logs. This feline stealth mechanism has got to be come kind of evolved self-preservation technique. They’ve learned that people can’t stay awake all night to keep them out, so they wait until the snoring starts, then crawl in. Or they think we’re purring, and it’s irresistible as a siren’s call.

But I’m pretty sure it has everything to do with staying warm on these long winter nights, and now that we have two of them, we have twice the problem of cat-wedged-ness. If I don’t come up with a self-defense mechanism of my own, I’m going to end up frostbitten and bloodshot-eyed.

Bloodshot | 6:18 am CDT
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Monday, December 6th, 2010

Bluh! Bluh! Bluh! Blearrrrgh!

That’s how our oldest cat said “Good morning!” to me at four o’clock in the morning today. I’m in bed at four o’clock in the morning. I had been sleeping, up until the cat began singing his gastric antilullabye. That kind of thing tends to wake me right up, though, and then I start thinking that I’ll have to go clean that up because, if I don’t, I won’t be able to find it and wonder where it is until I’m doing some light house cleaning and find myself suddenly staring at it when I least expect it, or I’ll find it almost immediately after getting out of bed by stepping in it with my bare feet.

I don’t want to do either, so I get out of bed. At four o’clock in the morning. Did I mention how early that is? There are many things I don’t like to do, and very, very low on that list is getting out of bed at four o’clock in the morning, particularly in winter. I get chilled. It sucks.

Also, I have to turn on the lights to find the puke, which hurts my eyes. The lights, not the puke. I didn’t get any puke in my eyes. That sounded needlessly icky, didn’t it? Sorry. But you weren’t the one cleaning up cat puke this morning. I already mentioned how early, didn’t I?

I found it almost immediately because Bonkers was sitting right next to it. He looked as tired as I felt, and hadn’t moved an inch since horking it up. Cats aren’t as thoughtful as dogs are and won’t lift a finger to clean up after themselves. Next time, we’re getting a dog so I won’t have to do this at oh-dark-thirty, all I’ll have to do is stick my fingers in my ears to block the sound of the dog lapping up his mess.

So I got the paper towels and the spray bottle and cleaned it up, washed my hands in lye and then crawled back under the covers, which had cooled off so I had to curl up tightly in a ball and try to generate some warmth on my side of the bed again while B and Boo snored gently over on the other side. The only time B wakes up for these things is when Boo, sleeping in the crook of her knees, wakes up and tries to hork on the bed. That makes for some exciting midnight theater, I can tell you.

Blearrrgh! | 6:19 am CDT
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Thursday, November 25th, 2010

Why is sleeping in late so damned tiring? I don’t know when to get out of bed, and when I finally force myself I can’t make my ass move any faster than a … a really tired, slow thing that can’t stop yawning. Sorry, I’m still half-asleep as I write this drivel.

I can get out of bed a lot quicker when I do it robotically at five o’clock in the morning, then time when the alarm clock usually starts to bleat. On a work day I can move with a purpose; on a day off, I have so much time all to myself that I hardly know whether to shit or get off the pot.

I’d set my alarm for maybe six or seven, just to take the problem of deciding when to get up out of the equation, but then My Darling B would make fun of me. She doesn’t have any problems at all with sleeping in. Never has, that I can remember.

The cats love her for it. They curl up on either side of her to keep warm and do what cats do best and most often, sleep the day away. Of course, that’s after the oldest one wakes up between five and six and wanders from room to room, howling at the dead people for about an hour. You’d think that by now he’d be used to having the spectral denizens of the afterlife wandering through the walls of our house, but no.

Wakey Wakey | 8:12 am CDT
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Tuesday, November 23rd, 2010

I found Boo sitting on the end of the dining room table when I turned on the lights this morning. She’s usually waiting for me there, couldn’t be more obvious about what she wanted if she had a bib and was propping up a knife and fork with each paw. And, usually, I snap my finger and she jumps down off the table without delay, but this morning she just grumbled at me.

“What?” I asked, incredulously, and snapped my finger again. She still wouldn’t budge.

I reached for the squirt gun. That’s usually enough to change her mind, but not this morning. I grabbed the squirt gun. She still didn’t make a move to get down, so I swung around and pointed the squirt gun at her, giving her one last chance. She only blinked her eyes at me, with lots of attitude, as if to say, Yeah? Bring it. So I shot her in the face.

She shook it off, did a one-eighty to turn her butt to me, and sat back down again, very slowly. This is what I think of your squirt gun, bitch.

Hoo boy, did she get drenched for that.

Little Squirt | 6:30 am CDT
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Tuesday, October 12th, 2010

Trying to think of suitable drivel to release upon the world is never an easy task; trying to do it while Bonkers the cat is squatting beside the grand exalted throne deep in the heart of drivel HQ going “Ehhh! Ehhh!” makes it even harder.

Bonkers doesn’t go “Meow” like other cats. Bonkers goes “Ehhh!” It’s an improvement. He used to bark like a dog. Well, not exactly like a dog, but so close that you had to wonder if he wasn’t raised by a German shepherd. But the “Ehhh!” can still be kind of unnerving, especially when he does it over and over. Sometimes it’s like he’s about to speak.

For many people drivel comes easy, so easy that they rake in stunning piles of money in exchange for their mental drool. I can’t understand it, but they’re all over television and radio every single day. How do they do it? If I could figure out the answer to that riddle, I’d have the tiger by the tail, the jinni in the lamp, a goose that laid the golden egg, and all my readers by the short hairs. But, as you see, I have no discretion when it comes to self-control. I know lots of metaphors and I’m not afraid to use them, even though I should be.

Still, it bugs me. After dinner, My Darling B and I were trying to remember the last good television show we saw and couldn’t come up with anything we thought was worth paying the four to six hundred dollars a year we’d fork over if we succumbed to the herd mentality and subscribed to cable television. I think the last program we all watched together was either Lost or Heroes, two shows that were mildly interesting when they started but lost me so fast I felt like Wile E. Coyote chasing the Road Runner.

And I don’t mean they lost me intellectually; I mean they started to suck. I stayed with Lost for two seasons because nearly every series has quite a few hiccups in the first two seasons while it tries to find its feet. There was plenty of time for Lost to live up to its promise, but it never did. It just kept sinking lower and lower. After the bug-eyed guy showed up I couldn’t even figure out what it was about any more, and walked away.

And Heroes, what a waste. I would’ve given it a chance by sticking with it through the second season if it didn’t make me feel like such an obvious schmuck for doing so. I haven’t watched any television series since.

B stuck with both Lost and Heroes to the bitter end, like a marathon runner obviously in great pain but determined to cross the finish line. And like those psychos she wept in pain and wondered why she was doing it, but she crossed the line, she got the t-shirt, she can say she did it. I still don’t know why, and to this day she’s not sure she can explain it, either. Poor thing.

I burp this up after succumbing to curiosity and searching out several episodes of the old Star Trek series. I’d turned up several blogs that celebrated the can-do spirit of the original show and, in a fit of nostalgia, caved in and let myself waste an hour or two with whatever was available on YouTube, and you know what? That show sucked. Like a victim of an emotionally traumatic experience, I had no clear memory of how bad it was: The hammy acting, the clunky dialog, the piss-poor production values. It was such a bad show in almost every way, and I spent just about every afternoon of my teenaged life watching every episode, most of them three or four times.

Drivel. It’s what’s for dinner.

Ehhh! Ehhh! | 9:38 pm CDT
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Sunday, October 3rd, 2010

image of sleeping sick guy

I’m still trying to sleep off the effects of this head cold I caught, so this will necessarily be brief before I have to go medicate myself with my hourly fistful of over-the-counter drugs, drink a pint of water and stretch out on the recliner for my early-mid-late-afternoon nap.

My symptoms today are a lot worse than they were the day before, and they were plenty bad yesterday. “You look like shit,” My Darling B observed, gazing across the dinner table at me. “I hope you don’t take that the wrong way.” I was too burned out to take it any way at all.

This morning I had a clear head for about an hour, long enough to make the ceremonial pot of coffee and eat a bowl of granola before I wrapped myself up in quilts and retreated to the recliner with a hot cuppa joe and the Sunday paper. I barely touched either of them before I was drifting in and out of consciousness.

I’d forgotten how much I hate being this sick. For an hour or more I struggled to keep my eyes open as waves of congestion swelled my face up and filled my eyes with tears. I could read three or four paragraphs before I had to put the newspaper down, reel off a yard and a half of toilet paper from the roll I kept at my side, and explosively blow a quart or two of snot from my sinuses. Finally I just gave up, popped a couple decongestants, stretched out with my eyes closed and prayed for death.

When I finally came to again, round about two in the afternoon, I was feeling well enough to make myself a cup of tea, and passed a few hours by reading a few chapters of the book I’m chipping away at, The Making of the Atomic Bomb by Richard Rhodes. It even made some sense, unlike the news stories I was trying to figure out this morning. But I can tell a relapse is coming on quickly and I’ll have to go pop a couple more decongestant capsules before becoming an inert lump on the recliner once again.

The photo’s from yesterday; B snapped it while I was out like a light. She’s been babying me as much as she dares, but mostly she’s trying to keep her distance, and I don’t blame her one bit. The cats, on the other hand, aren’t squeamish at all about my condition. The great thing about cats is they’ll curl up with you whether you’re healthy or sick. All they’re looking for is a warm lap, and once they’ve claimed it they’ll stubbornly stay there no matter how wetly you sneeze on them. They can’t catch your bug, so they don’t care.

Out Go The Lights! | 3:25 pm CDT
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Friday, September 24th, 2010

image of sleeping cat owner

Our cats sleep with us. We don’t have a lot of choice in the matter, as anyone who has cats will tell you. I suppose we could put them out at night, but what’s the point of having cats if you’re going to kick them out of the house after lights out, effectively telling them they’re welcome to stay when you’re not around, but not when you want to get some sleep, the one thing cats love to do more than practically anything else?

Cats sleep a lot, and they find their own places to sleep. You can buy very cozy cat beds from your favorite pet store, and you can use all the coercion that cat experts give you to get your cats to sleep where you want them to, but in the end your cats will be the ones who decide where they will sleep. You can’t watch them all the time.

During the day, when you’re not around, they’ll sleep on the clothes you laid out for dinner in the evening, or on your good jacket, the one you left out to sew up a tear. And no cats on earth can resist curling up in laundry baskets heaped with freshly-washed clothes and left sitting in the middle of the living room floor to be folded later. Cat lovers learn early on to put away all their clothes if they don’t want to come back to find them covered in cat hair.

At night, cats will sleep where they feel most comfortable. During the summer in our house, they will find the coolest spot, usually on a floor or by an open window, because we don’t run the air conditioning all night. In the winter they will curl up in bed with us because the thermostat is set to lower the temps while we’re curled up under a big, thick down comforter.

Until a few nights ago we didn’t have a huge problem with any of this. A few minor quibbles, yes. Most notably, when I get a couple of full-grown cats curled up on either side of me, they hold down the quilt like a couple of sand bags, effectively pinning me to the mattress so completely that I wake up several times in the night with pressure sores. Worming out from under the covers to re-pile them at the foot of the bed so I can turn over is a bit of a pain, but not a huge problem.

But each of us has our own fussy peculiarities about what can take place in our bed. Breakfast in bed, for instance, is not something either one of us goes in for. I used to prepare a breakfast in bed for My Darling B on Mother’s Day and she ooo’d and aah’d appreciatively the first few times I did it but eventually came clean and confessed to me what I already knew, that there wasn’t any easy way to eat breakfast in bed without spilling the orange juice all over the eggs and getting crumbs on the sheets, and that she would rather just eat it at the table. No breakfast in bed has since become one of our rules.

A rule that we didn’t realize we would ever have to communicate to our cats, until very early in the morning a couple nights ago. One of the cats not only brought B a gift of a mouse as breakfast in bed, she plopped it right on the pillow next to B’s head where it scurried across her face and dove three feet from the edge to the safety of the floor. I don’t know what woke me up more abruptly, the way she honked like an air horn on a semi tractor or the jolt I got when she sprang out of bed.

We suspect Boo would’ve given her gift to B, while I would have been the lucky recipient of a gift from Bonkers. B’s normally a heavy sleeper but now she wakes and scans her horizon whenever she feels the bump of a cat jumping onto the bed, and as extra insurance she clicks on her bedside lamp to scan the floor before swinging her feet down if she has to make a trip to the WC.

Breakfast In Bed with Boo and B | 11:32 am CDT
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Tuesday, September 14th, 2010

image of Boo the cat

Bonkers is feeling much better today, thanks for asking. The vet gave him some meds for arthritis and some painkillers because the meds don’t kick in for two to three days. He’s up and around this morning, almost as active as his old self. Hesitates a bit before jumping up in my lap, as if he’s thinking about the twinge he’s going to feel as he pushes off, but he jumps up nonetheless, happy to be home.

Boo is not happy at all about Bonkers coming back from the vet. She skulks along the far side of the room when she wants to get past him, growling at him the whole time. She’s like that every time he goes to the vet without her, I guess because he smells funny when he gets back. She usually gets over it fairly quickly, but she was still hissing and spitting at him this morning while I was trying to get some meds into him.

The odor of the wet food I was sprinkling the medicine on pulled her in like a crappie on the end of a well-baited line so we gave her some, too, but she was very upset she had to be in the same room with Bonkers and wouldn’t stop spitting at him until My Darling B turned on her and cut loose with a barrage of hissing and spitting that sent Boo reeling back on her haunches. If communication is the proof of intelligence, then Boo confirmed hers, because her face said, “What the hell, woman?”

Even though I put her in a bedroom and closed the door for a well-deserved time out that lasted several hours, she managed to keep her sour mood going through the rest of the day. The first thing she did when I finally opened the door to let her out was hiss at Bonkers, who was standing in the hallway to see if she wanted to be friends again. The poor guy couldn’t figure out what her problem was and followed her from room to room as if to ask, “What’s wrong?”

If the funky smell of been-to-the-vet Bonkers drove Boo to hissy fits, being stalked by him made her even crazier. She skulked across the far side of the room, as far away from him as possible, growling as she made her way behind sofas and under chairs, to get a bite to eat and a drink of water. When she found Bonkers standing in the doorway of the dining room on her way back, she not only had another hissy fit, she gave him a couple swats on the nose, too, earning a good drenching from the squirt bottle.

Backing off with a genuinely hurt expression on his face, Bonkers tried once again to figure out what was wrong by following her across the living room, but Boo very pointedly answered that she did not want to talk about it, and eventually he gave up and curled up on the pile of dirty clothes I had sorted to wash and took a day-long nap.

You Know What They’re Thinking | 9:20 am CDT
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Sunday, September 12th, 2010

image of cat

How the hell do you keep cats off your head when you sleep at night? I’m desperately serious. Some people have bedbugs, we have cats. Now that I think of it, we got them almost the same way you get bedbugs: We brought them home with us in a valise. The difference was that we meant to, although I sometimes wonder why.

The fall season is one of those times. The weather’s cooling off at night and the cats have determined that the warmest place in the house is curled up on the bed with us. At first they were content to curl up at the foot of the bed, like good little kitties. Made a nice little Norman Rockwellish picture.

But it’s been getting cooler each successive night, and while the temps have gone down, the cats have moved up from the foot of the bed to our legs, then our hips, then snuggling in between our bodies, and last night Bonkers spent the night as close to my head as he could get. I found out when he announced himself by vigorously scratching his ears, then shaking his head, his flapping ears making a noise like a machine-gun. Coming awake from deep sleep, I just about jumped out of my skin when he did that.

Since he was awake anyway, he felt the need at that moment to noisily clean his feet. I scooped him up and dumped him at the foot of the bed, hoping he would finish his bath there. I think he did, but I found out later he had stealthily crept back to settle in at my shoulder. I woke up less than an hour later to the sound of Bonkers yawning in my ear. He can noiselessly stalk a mouse but when he yawns, he sounds like ten pounds of wet spaghetti dropped on the kitchen floor.

This can’t go on. I need to sleep. I don’t need more than just a few hours of undisturbed slumber, but I can’t get it when cats are camping out on my head, making scary noises. Locking them out of the room is not the solution; they sit outside, scratching at the door and crying like the worst kind of spoiled brats, which I guess they are. I’ve tried breaking them of that but haven’t been able to. That’s just not an option. Neither is throwing them out for the night. I can see why some people take the easy way out and do that, but it’s not fair to the cat or my neighbors. There’s got to be a way to teach them to stay at the foot of the bed without hog-tying them and dumping them there, although I admit that sounds like a very good idea right now.

A guy walks into a bar with a cat on his head … | 9:49 am CDT
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Tuesday, August 31st, 2010

While putting away the various flotsam and jetsam scattered across the living room floor of Our Humble O’Bode the day after our return from a weekend at the Chain O’ Lakes, I moved an empty bag aside to find … cat puke. One of our little rascals felt the need to unload his or her morning meal, found a corner to barf in last weekend and left a prezzie for us. How lovely.

Remind me again why we keep pets? I’ve heard that they’re supposed to keep your blood pressure low and restore calm to your life, but that doesn’t seem to be the case with our cats. Some day I’ll find out, and I promise I’ll share it with you. I wouldn’t hold my breath, though, if I were you. It’ll probably be something really boring, like “They’re good for catching mice,” or some such. Just don’t expect too much, is all I’m saying.

cat prezzie | 6:52 am CDT
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Friday, August 27th, 2010

image of mouse

Boo brought me breakfast in bed! What a good Boo!

It’s not at all unusual for Boo to jump up into our bed when the alarm goes bleep in the morning so she can lay claim to the warm spot I leave behind when I get up to make coffee for My Darling B. Sometimes she even cuddles up next to me as if maybe she likes me, but I think she might actually be trying to push me aside so she can curl up before the warmth fades away, even though she weighs less than a tenth of what I weigh.

So I didn’t think anything of it when she jumped up next to me as I sat on the edge of the bed this morning, rubbing my eyes to get the sleepers out. I even put a hand on her head to rub her ears a bit, and that’s about when she ducked and Puh! spat out a mouse, her special gift for me.

Oh, Boo! I never knew you loved me that much!

Prezzie from Boo | 9:21 pm CDT
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Monday, June 21st, 2010

In Mouse-Catching News: Boo was acting all funny Saturday night, jumping around and chasing shadows across the floor. That’s usually the kind of thing Bonkers does, else My Darling B wouldn’t have taken much notice of her. “Whatcha doin’, Boo?” she asked, and when Boo turned to look at her, B noticed a mouse’s tail hanging from Boo’s mouth, just like in the cartoons.

I was in the bedroom so I didn’t see any of this, but I did hear B holler, “Oh, gross!” Then she called for help when Boo spat the mouse on the floor. I arrived on the scene just in time to chase the mouse across the living room floor and stick it in a jar. It was playing dead until I reached for it, then took off like a shot, heading for the hallway with me in hot pursuit while B struggled to hold the cats in check.

B doesn’t like mice in the house but would rather not kill them if she can help it, so when we catch one, or the cats do, we take it to a nearby park and release it. B took this one to a park just up the block in an empty applesauce jar to let it go, then came back and, just as she was beginning to relax again, Bonkers brought a mouse up from the basement and started chasing it around the living room!

Unfortunately for Miss Mouse, B couldn’t get to that one in time for a live release. Bonkers beats them up pretty bad chasing them around, although they’re such small, bouncy things you’d think they’d be able to handle that a little better than being inside a cat’s freaking mouth! When B finally got Bonkers to let his prize go it was limp as a noodle, not playing dead at all. The applesauce jar was only a temporary holding spot on the way to the trash can for that little furball.

bleh | 9:15 am CDT
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Wednesday, June 2nd, 2010

The cats let me sleep until around three in the morning, when Bonk let out a tentative wail, then ran into the bathroom to hide. He hasn’t done that in months, not since we bought robot cat feeders. After he woke me up, Boo walked across my face, the same thing she used to do when she was hungry and wanted me to get up and feed her. What the hell?

Sometimes it takes me a while to figure these things out. When enough of my nerve endings were fired up, it came back to me that one of the things I tried to remember to do before bed, and utterly failed at, was reload the robot cat feeders. They hadn’t even seen kitty kibble since the dish spun it all away at nine-thirty the night before. Since they weren’t about to let me go back to sleep, I got out of bed, trudged through the murk to the kitchen and reset the feeders so they could have a little after-dark snack.

After that, a passing storm kept me from getting back to sleep right away, and when it finally let up I think the change in pressure made B roll over and start sawing lumber. I spent the rest of the early-morning hours alternating between dozing off and whispering, “Turn over, dear.”

kibble? | 7:47 pm CDT
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Monday, April 12th, 2010

mouse, miceWe have mice.

I figured the cats were keeping them down. Well, one of the cats, anyway. Bonkers is a pretty enthusiastic mouser, when one happens to cross his path, but, as it turns out, he doesn’t go out on the hunt to track them down. Boo is really very ambivalent about mice. They can come, they can go, maybe she’ll check them out when they get here, whatever.

Two or three times this winter, Bonkers brought us a mouse he caught in the basement. One morning I got up to find him batting one around on the kitchen floor. And lately I’ve been seeing little mousie calling cards all along the walls in the basement. I should have set traps before this, but, as I said, I thought the cats would be going after them so I wouldn’t have to.

Then the other day, as I was raking the cat pans, I found a trail of little black mouse turds along the wall leading behind the chimney into the next room. That solved the mystery of what they were eating. The kitty litter is wheat-based; it’d be a mouse smorgasbord, wouldn’t it? “We must have made the front page of the Monona Mouse Bulletin when we brought that stuff home,” My Darling B said. “Party at the O-Home! Don’t worry about the dumb cats!”

So how to get rid of them? On our weekend trip to the hardware store I grabbed a packet of old-fashioned mouse traps off the pegboard wall. My only worry was that the cats would be tripping them all the time and probably even get caught in them. My Darling B’s worry was that it would kill the mice.

“But they’re mice,” I pointed out.

“You want to kill them?”

“Well, no, I don’t want to kill them. Do you want them in your house?”

In the end, we agreed to try a live-catch trap, a tiny plastic box with a trap door on one end that drops and latches shut when a mouse walks into the box. I have to reset them several times a day because the cats trip them shut every time they stepped in and out of their litter pans, but this morning when I picked one of them up it was a little bit heavier than it should have been, so I upended it over this apple sauce jar and out came a mouse.

Huh. Bigger than I thought it would be.

hickory dickory dock | 3:47 pm CDT
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Wednesday, February 24th, 2010

lappy catsOur cats are both “lappy,” Bonkers more so than Boo.
Bonkers almost always sits in my lap, Boo in B’s lap.

When I was too busy to share a lap the other night, though, Bonkers jumped up in B’s lap after he thought he’d waited long enough.

Then Boo, green-eyed monster that she can be, jumped up on top of Bonkers to claim what lap she could.
Didn’t seem to bother Bonkers much.

lappy | 9:58 am CDT
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