I is disgraced

I have committed a terrible sin against her royal highness Princess Buttercup. I closed a door and she was on the other side of it. She has been informing me of my sins for the last ten minutes or so.

If you couldn’t guess, this is a household where the feline rules. The “no doors” rule has been around forever – I have “fond” memories of the first night in a new house where there were only room AC units and Miss Shani Fluffypants took umbrage at being shut out. She was the kitty with no voice, so instead of crying at the door, she hit it until one of us got up and let her in.

Then about an hour or so later, she hit the door again until one of us let her back out. And so on, until we gave up and left the door slightly open. Not long after that we set up heavy curtains in the doors to keep the cool in but allow the felines free reign.

Heaven forbid there be a door between them and their human, after all.

So naturally, each new cat that’s laid claim to us has grown up with the certain knowledge that they will not be separated from their humans, and that any attempt to separate them from their humans is Very Bad.

And that’s before you consider the way all of them have concluded that the best time for snuggles is when one of us is on the loo. After all, we can’t escape then. Her Highness likes to make sure my shoes are up to standard when I’m doing my business, by checking that her claws don’t destroy them. Why that’s what she’s decided is proper claw sharpening material is something I don’t pretend to understand, but that’s how it is.

So of course, shutting her away from her humans and failing to play with her (she likes to play fetch with crinkly things. And socks. She also tries to kill them before she brings them back although she can be a bit imprecise about precisely how close they need to be to count as bringing them back) and ignoring her is an appalling sin to commit against our feline ruler.

I should go and offer snuggles and kitty treats in the hope of forgiveness.


  1. We too are disgraced, here at Chez Phantom, for being insufficiently solicitous of our poodle, Maximum Maxwell. (The most Maxwell you can get in one doggo.)

    He is eating grass and barfing, since we obviously haven’t been feeding him enough. 😦

  2. Yeah, I got up and shut my door (and windows) earlier this week because a wind-shift brought the smoke from a wildfire pouring in (and I’ve already got a respiratory infection). I was rousted at 4:30 am by Fat Cat–who had otherwise been contentedly sleeping at the foot of my bed, despite the presence of New Puppy also on the bed–throwing a fit because he wanted out.

    The fit would have happened much sooner and much more at length had he been on the side of the door I wasn’t, but still. Sigh. This is why I don’t shut my doors: I get tired of kitty (and puppy) temper tantrums, lol…

    I would say it’s especially hard to ignore a cat the size of a human two year old throwing a fit, but the truth is an eight pound cat would make just as much of a fuss. 😀

  3. I was going to reply, but I’m standing at my walking treadmill desk. I hadn’t turned it on, so 17 pounds of purrbutt walked up behind me and grabbed my ass with both front paws, since he knows that’s always going to get an immediate reaction. Then I had to follow the high waving tail to realize my mistake in letting his food bowl get too low.

  4. Cats are morally offended by the presence of doors. When a cat sees a door, he wants to be on the other side of it — he never knows when it will be the door into summer.

  5. We have been acquired by a kitten this week. She is banished to the laundry room, as it has linoleum, until such a time as she has proven she knows what goes in the litter box does not go anywhere else. I refuse to deal with that on the hard wood. Or unglazed tile. Or concrete. She does not approve of this situation, but I, having never been a cat person, am remarkably unsympathetic to her sad mews, and as she pooped in the box intended for her to sleep in, on the soft old flannel sheet last night, she’s out of luck for today.

    The kids, on the other hand . . . well, she may be behind closed door, but she’s barely alone enough to sleep! 1.7 pounds of black kitten, named Gertrude after the patron saint of cats.

    I hate people who dump animals. Litter of five, we were able to catch two. Presumably the local predators got the others. Her brother went to a friend to find a home for.

    I don’t know if little Trudy will be a help to writing or not, but Kate and Cedar and Barb if she’s around, I want to say thank you now, since I’m not sure I properly did a decade and a half plus ago, for some very kind feedback you gave me on Baen’s Bar, that I apparently copied and pasted and saved and transferred across multiple computers and failed hard drives. This, actually, was just what I needed this week. (Stamp on file is 2004, but I suspect it’s older than that.)

      1. Oh yes. Since all I know about cat names is from Andrew Lloyd Weber, I figured searching “patron saint cats” would at least be a reasonable starting point. And when I saw it was St. Gertrude . . . well, the lady who painted our house in 1987 was Trudy with a heavy German accent and time for a little girl, and the nuns at the Monastery of St. Gertrude, in Cottenwood, ID, looked after us on a fossil dig at Tolo Lake, Grangeville, when I was a teen. So clearly, as a name, it has all sorts of good connotations for me.

        If the kitten doesn’t like it, she can just settle on one of her other names.

  6. Dogs have owners… Cats have staff. I am staff; food provider second class and lap provider third class (when I am sitting down reading 🙂
    Empress Tushka the First has her own cat door, as us lowly hoomans are too slow witted.

  7. Max the Big Boned just (as in an hour or so ago) entered our lives. His previous human is too ill to take care of him now. He peed in his carrier on the way here, was forced to endure a bath when I had to clean him up, and is now underneath my secretary desk in the living room, mortally offended (and scared but I know he won’t admit to that). Crystal, Queen of All She Surveys is sitting in the living room wondering why and how we would dare to bring in another butthead boy. Because for her, all boys are buttheads.

  8. Then about an hour or so later, she hit the door again until one of us let her back out. And so on, until we gave up and left the door slightly open. Not long after that we set up heavy curtains in the doors to keep the cool in but allow the felines free reign.

    I locked the kitten in the bathroom, instead.

    This resulted in Elf and I using the other bathroom, instead, but the cat’s “the door must be gone!” impulse is limited to trying to push it open, not banging or yaowling.

  9. I was hunting for patron saints of birds — there’s Milburga for birds in general but then for individual ones — well, that’s St. David for doves and St. Hugh for swans, but for canaries I decided to go for St. Cecelia —

  10. If you’d been more attentive to feline needs, maybe you’d have installed a cat flap on each of the interior doors.

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