Last night I slept very lightly. Every little noise had me waking up and waiting, silently, for the cat door to open. Nothing. What a disappointment. I was promised a visit by a raccoon, and NOTHING.
Berkeley is some sort of wild animal park. These are the characters from this weekend:
1.) Fang. A really loud, fat, cranky, one-eyed cat.
2.) Squeeky. The big stupid boy kitty that lives downstairs. Will put up with any manner of ill treatment for attention.
3.) Fluffy. The little girl kitty downstairs. Scared of her own shadow.
4.) Possum. Ran into the open garage just as we were finished with the downstairs cats. Out of the corner of my eye, I thought it was a giant rat. Just moments earlier, and we could have kept it out of the garage. Possums are really really dumb, but I think they are cute.
5.) Lurking raccoon. In the bushes a few blocks from Paul’s house. Very interactive and curious, but I did eventually scare it off.
6.) Another possum. In the flowers at the house around the corner.
7.) The slutty cat. Lives around the corner, is ridiculously friendly. Threateningly so, almost. She jumps up on you and spastically vies for attention. Also a brawler, when the 3 ½ legged next-door cat comes out.
8.) Mr. Peepers. The diabolical raccoon, who has figured out to break into houses.
No squirrels this weekend, didn’t see the hawk that’s frequently sitting on the telephone poles pooping and squeeking. (I’m just glad the hawk hasn’t been breaking in. The pooping on my bikes is enough trouble.)
So every so often, Paul (and sometimes with me) will come home and find a mess left behind by Mr. Peepers. Cat food, gone. Water, gone, but half splashed out on the floor (Mr. Peepers likes to wash his hands) Muddy raccoon prints everywhere. All over the kitchen, even a few on the refrigerator, and one time, even on the bed. (cute.) Downstairs at the other cats’ food area: same story. It’s funny (like when we could see that the cat had fallen into the toilet because Mr. Peepers trashed her water) and impressive (this raccoon is really smart, to have figured all this out), but it needs to STOP. Mr. Peepers, if you’re reading this, PLEASE stop. Getting hit with a beer bottle a few times didn’t seem to deter him.
I desperately wanted to see this in action, but he’s never come by when I was there. I felt like a kid at Christams, waiting for the noises at the chimney, or cat door, or whatever. Oh, I know, Mr. Peepers can't come unless you're all tucked into bed sleeping, but I get so excited.
I have seen the aftermath, and it’s quite hilarious. But it needs to stop, because the cats could get hurt. Mr. Peepers must be getting awfully big from all the cat food, after all.