8:09 PM Report
A long leg of preparing for dragging out the Christmas decorations has been achieved. It was laid out very simply in my mind--find an appropriate corner, clear the approved corner of its denizens in a large enough radius to at least stuff the tree into, and reassemble them in another part of the house.
I disassembled a cheap table, cleared my desk of unread mail and business cards, neatened and dusted, shoved a turntable onto the desk, cleared a bookcase of comics and J.R.R. Tolkien literature, moved said bookcase over to where the small table once was, put all the books back while resisting the urge to flip through Marvel Zombies, arranged the various doohickies and pictures that sit on such flat surfaces, and am now sitting down to look at my freshly cleared floor in all its glory.
11:00 PM Report
I forced myself to stop playing Harvest Moon and faced the closet.
I dragged our fluffy green friend out of that mess and began the process of setting it up.
In swooped a vulture.
That is Beckett, the Fat Cat. Beckett is by far the sweetest of the three, often picked on and easily mislead into mischief by the other two. I eyed him with suspicion, but I remembered my vow--I would not discipline the cats.
But then came the other two. Marlowe, the White Cat, and Shakespeare, the White Cat's Crony.
They just look like they're waiting to whack you.
No matter. I plodded along with my tree creation, crooning over the despairing state of the droopy limbs and spending extra time froofing it up. A little extra elbow grease can turn a dilapidated anything into looking like you give a damn, and I live by that motto.
I attached the tree to the wall like so:
And this is what it looks like now:
As an added precaution, I will be going around the tree with my citrus Febreeze. I don't think it does anything other than make me feel better about things. But I'll note any differences.
Thus far, the tree is Cat Castle. They have played and tussled and even climbed the middle all the way up. The tree wobbled dangerously, but the hooks and yarn held fast.
11:52 PM Report
Marlowe and Shakespeare left the scene and went to flop on the bed. Beckett curled up beneath the boughs for about fifteen extra minutes, emphasizing who was boss, then left and joined me on the couch.
I don't believe it. It can't be that easy.