I apologize for neglecting my blog thingy.
Well, I'm not really sorry, my two legger just felt that I should apologize, so to keep the food and catnip coming, I caved.
The reason I haven't been posting as much is simple.
Springtime in the Pacific Northwest is barely discernible from the other three seasons in the Pacific Northwest. It is rainy, cold, windy and generally foul outside.
So how can I tell when Spring has arrived?
Not only is it foul outside, but there ARE fowl outside.
That's right, the bird thingies are returning. This requires my constant attention. I feel compelled to stand vigil at the windows and doors of my house.
The bird thingies must be watched. I'm not sure why, I only know that they must be watched.
Bird thingies come in many different shapes and sizes. From the itty bitty yellow and black ones, to the unnaturally large ones with the black and brown bodies and white heads. The smaller bird thingies feed on seeds and nuts that the two leggers provide, while the larger ones seem to feed on the smaller bird thingies. I respect this. The carnage amuses me.
The exception to this size equals appetite theory is BOB. He eats grapes and other stuff that doesn't bleed. He annoys me.
The smaller bird thingies are much more prevalent. They spend their day flitting about from branch to branch, eating seeds, chirping, tweeting and using the lawn furniture as their litter box. Aside from being a protein source, their purpose eludes me.
The other major symptom of Spring : Squirrel thingies. Alas, my hopes that the wind, snow and bitter temperatures that wreaked havoc on the yard may have decimated the squirrel infestation, have gone unrewarded. They are back, dancing on the deck, playing in my yard, and being unreasonably cheerful. There is nothing in my world that annoys me more.
It is my belief that the bird thingies consort with squirrel thingies. They both live in trees, they eat seeds and nuts, they always seem happy. They all must die.
Unfortunately, it is not within my power to erase their enthusiasm. The windows have proven themselves to be beyond my breakage capabilities. So every morning, Ivan and I sit in our windows and watch. We chitter. We occasionally growl. We have even been known to hiss.
But mostly we watch.
We wait in tail twitching anticipation for The Day. The Day when the two leggers carelessly leave a window open and the wrath of Cujo is unleashed upon all the feathered and mangy furred denizens of my yard.
Ivan's wrath will also be released, but it will be directed at the rose bush. I don't know why, and Ivan does not wish to talk about it.