Found Objects

Except for the cat.

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There must have been a major cat chess event going on tonight. In the few streets, three minutes by bike, from folk dancing to home I saw at least four groups of cats observing each other. Unfortunately I didn’t have a camera with me (one never has in such circumstances) so here’s one we made earlier a picture I took of an earlier bout when I came home from taking folk-dancing pictures:

From our upstairs window I could see the tabby cat across the road behind its upstairs window, looking wistfully at the local section. The tabby isn’t allowed out, probably not yet as they only moved in yesterday. I had to retreat —one of the tabby’s people had business in the room and I wasn’t exactly decent as I was on my way to the bath— but later I saw the tail-end of what the cat had been watching: the long-haired ginger disappearing under some bushes and the large black retreating into his own back yard.

Boudewijn’s asthma threatening to get the better of him, we’re having to find new homes for the cats. I sent out a “Help!” message to all of my friends and acquaintances within public transport distance, and got a useful response from only one: friends of his wanted Johanna, the black one.

I put a message on a “rehouse pets” site recommended by the local RSPCA equivalent and got a call from someone in Rotterdam who wanted the black one too, but they were willing to settle for the tortie, Leentje. We made arrangements.

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Hendrik was ill — first urinary tract infection, then bladder stones, then urinary tract infection again — and the vet gave him special diet food, in a tin. He usually isn’t all that fond of tinned food, he’d rather have kibble, but this is designed for sick cats so it’s extremely delectable. To all cats, not just to sick cats.

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Yes, there really is a cat in this picture.

A bit of tail and (I think) hind leg can be seen on the far left. It became easier when she moved along a bit and showed her eyes:

The red book with the dilapidated binding is my trusty 1970 Concise Oxford; the shelf, in fact, is my store of indispensable things. Though I could probably put the 2001 and 2002 church yearbooks downstairs again and use 2003 instead.

Ever since I carried Leentje down the cellar stairs to discourage any passing mice, she’s considered it her job to do that every morning. After wolfing down a few bites of fresh kibble, she runs to the cellar door, mews if it’s closed, rushes down the stairs when we open the door, sniffs everything and returns to sit on the second or third step from the bottom, watching.

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