Just call me "The Lion Tamer."
Today while I was robotically going about my new (paying) job of relinking and updating library holdings records, I realized that I have let this blog waste away once again. So I've decided to put a stop to that.
I've been shuttling back and forth between my apartment and Takoma Park this week. Professor Middents and Professor Dadak have fled the concrete jungle for the rock-fringed beachscapes of Cape Cod, and I have been charged with the care of their household flora and fauna. The former is a relatively simple affair; water the lawn and garden every other day without tangling myself up in a hose and turning into a walking sitcom.
The latter, however, is a bit more complicated. The fourth member of the Middents-Dadak household is a cat named Vega. The cosmic-sounding name is appropriate enough, because this animal truly is a planet unto itself. When I first started going to the house last week, I was surprised at how quickly this creature could morph from your average stiff upper-lipped feline into a fearsome ball of claws. But what really struck me was the fact that this was not some random occurrence without rhyme or reason. It was a concerted effort on the cat's part to manipulate a certain pattern of petting and ear-scratching out of me. So if I went up to the cat and started petting her, she would respond with hostility, yet if I was sitting on the sofa reading a book, she would saunter on over and start meowing pathetically. All you proponents of game theories and power dynamics would be positively drooling over this.
But alas, I have managed to beat Vega at her own game! You see, this cat was counting on me being as reliable and housebroken as she herself was. (Not a bad estimation on her part.) However, she did not take my ultra-erratic schedule into account. As I began leaving the house increasingly early in the morning and coming back later and later, Vega began to realize that a scatter-brained college student with no concept of night and day would not be whipped so easily. So now as soon as I open the door I am greeted by an attention-starved cat literally throwing herself on the floor in front of me. Score!
So now I have a relatively docile cat to jump into my lap at night, a quiet little house to go home to at night (for one more night at least), an awesome little neighborhood to explore, and an hour-long metro ride to listen to all my albums on. Life is good!
Oh, and I have 14 pages of work due tomorrow for my class. Maybe I'm still whipped after all.
I've been shuttling back and forth between my apartment and Takoma Park this week. Professor Middents and Professor Dadak have fled the concrete jungle for the rock-fringed beachscapes of Cape Cod, and I have been charged with the care of their household flora and fauna. The former is a relatively simple affair; water the lawn and garden every other day without tangling myself up in a hose and turning into a walking sitcom.
The latter, however, is a bit more complicated. The fourth member of the Middents-Dadak household is a cat named Vega. The cosmic-sounding name is appropriate enough, because this animal truly is a planet unto itself. When I first started going to the house last week, I was surprised at how quickly this creature could morph from your average stiff upper-lipped feline into a fearsome ball of claws. But what really struck me was the fact that this was not some random occurrence without rhyme or reason. It was a concerted effort on the cat's part to manipulate a certain pattern of petting and ear-scratching out of me. So if I went up to the cat and started petting her, she would respond with hostility, yet if I was sitting on the sofa reading a book, she would saunter on over and start meowing pathetically. All you proponents of game theories and power dynamics would be positively drooling over this.
But alas, I have managed to beat Vega at her own game! You see, this cat was counting on me being as reliable and housebroken as she herself was. (Not a bad estimation on her part.) However, she did not take my ultra-erratic schedule into account. As I began leaving the house increasingly early in the morning and coming back later and later, Vega began to realize that a scatter-brained college student with no concept of night and day would not be whipped so easily. So now as soon as I open the door I am greeted by an attention-starved cat literally throwing herself on the floor in front of me. Score!
So now I have a relatively docile cat to jump into my lap at night, a quiet little house to go home to at night (for one more night at least), an awesome little neighborhood to explore, and an hour-long metro ride to listen to all my albums on. Life is good!
Oh, and I have 14 pages of work due tomorrow for my class. Maybe I'm still whipped after all.
posted by Justin @ 5:41 PM
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