Pootie's--and now, Bianca's--Day

MEOW, MEOW

Curl, curl.
Blink, blink
Stretch, stretch.
Yawn, yawn.
Hunch, hunch.
Meow, meow.

Pad, pad.
Sniff, sniff.
Crunch, crunch
Sniff, sniff.
Slurp, slurp.
Meow, meow.

Scratch, scratch.
Sniff, sniff.
Dig, dig.
Jump, jump.
Shake, shake.
Meow, meow.

Sniff, sniff.
Grab, grab.
Paw, paw.
Jump, jump.
Pounce, pounce.
Meow, meow.

Run, run.
Slide, slide.
Stop, stop.
Thump, thump.
Shake, shake.
Meow, meow.


Sniff, sniff.
Leap, leap.
Soft, soft.
Stroke, stroke.
Purr, purr.
Meow, meow.

Nap, nap.
Blink, blink.
Stretch, stretch.
Yawn, yawn.
Hunch, hunch.
Meow, meow.

Leap, leap.
Pad, pad.
Sniff, sniff.
Crunch, crunch.
Slurp, slurp.
Meow, meow.

Sniff, sniff.
Paw, paw.
Jump, jump.
Pounce, pounce.
Slide, slide.
Meow, meow.

Pad, pad.
Sniff, sniff.
Soft, soft.
Curl, curl.
Blink, blink.
Meow, meow.

Meow, meow.

Well: sort of. More grab, grab; paw, paw; jump, jump; pounce, pounce going on before the soft, soft; curl, curl; blink, blink business. Also, some scratch, scratch. Oh, dear.

Welcome Home, Bianca!

2/11/06: Eight weeks. May I present, HRH Princess Bianca:



Just look at her now!

Her first picture, right before Christmas 2005:



Horace--The Pootie--has a niece. Her name is Bianca. A Wilma afterthought, she found her way to me via Friends Forever Rescue at the Petsmart in The Falls area. I've had her a month already. Yesterday I took her in to be spayed. None too soon, it turned out: contrary to previous calculations, she's a young one--circa ten months--and would soon have gone into heat. Oh, dear.

A little groggy at the moment, she's, nonetheless, back to her playing with her squiggly toys tricks. She's discovered the tops of the kitchen cabinets--shades of her uncle! I found her in the sink just a few minutes ago.

Mad Bianca is her morning and evening name. That's when she carries out her scratching practice on the carpets on either side of the bed. One's a fake, and one's a real, Bokhara. I call this her Bokhara Slaw phase. Of course I prefer when she limits her antics to the fake one...

She also lunges at my feet. I finally had to resort to a squirt bottle to keep her in check, especially at the ungodly hour of between five-thirty and six o'clock in the morning. And then she plays fetch with her squiggly: she's the batter; and I'm the pitcher. (Sometimes the order is reversed, I kid you not.)

Tonight may be different--I don't know, yet. I just checked: she's on the picture windowsill that looks out at my garden. At our garden.

She's turned into a grown-up young lady overnight: a perpetual Vestal Virgin of one, at that. Nonetheless, I hope there's enough of the kitten left in her that she'll still periodically make Bokhara Slaw out of the rugs--fake and/or real--and pounce on my feet.

Please, Bianca, please?

Welcome Home, Bianca!