Day Eighty Eight

All's Well in Matchettville
 
Dash has been steering clear of Jack. As a matter of fact, he spent most of last evening playing with his toys in the front bedroom. By toys, I mean about a dozen plastic balls, and one half of a plastic Easter egg - the best toy of all. Unlike a ball, which rolls in a predictable pattern, the egg half, when swatted, goes wonky. With Eli, Finn and Chance taking turns watching him, Dash had a grand old time with his toy. For hours, we could hear him chasing it around the room.

Eventually, he got brave and carried it out to the family room. It was easy to carry, but looked hilarious in his tiny mouth. He swatted and chased it around the family, living and dining rooms awhile. Tile floors make a great hockey surface. At one point, as I feared would happen, he swatted it right toward a sleeping Jack. Of course Jack jumped, but didn't react. Dash never gave him a chance to - he ran in the opposite direction. Jack then sat up and went to the couch, looking at me the whole time. His thoughts came across loud and clear, "There. Are you happy? I didn't hurt your precious cat. But I'm here to tell you, he gets on my last nerve."

Jack was mightily praised for not killing Dash. On a side note - Can you believe we have a creature in our home that we praise for not killing someone? I feel like that woman in Game of Thrones who raised dragons that she can't control! I know. Now, if I actually thought Jack capable of such violence, I would never let him around my grandchildren or other pets. He's normally very sweet and patient. Dash just sets his teeth on edge. But, left to his own devices, Jack would be a strict disciplinarian. We just have to keep a metaphorical fire extinguisher handy.

Except for Dash, everyone else in this house is too fat. I can barely pick Fancy up anymore. He feels like he's wearing ankle weights. Chance is so chubby, he's lost his neck. Surprisingly, Finn is fat, even though he is my pickiest eater. Even Roxy has tripled her girth since arriving here. Petey is so chubby he can barely fit on his wheel - a Catch-22 if ever there was one. And the rotund parents are to blame. Well, one is for sure.
 

I cannot stand to see anyone/thing look like it's hungry. I have a real problem. One would think I lived through the Great Depression, but I am not that old. My parents did and they hoarded food. I hoard pet food. Seriously. I can't stand to run low, and I am most content when the pantry is filled, not with people food, but with shelves of pet food. I buy cases and huge bags of food and treats - for everyone.
 
Here's the thing - they depend on me. How would a hamster or rabbit, for example, get food or water on their own? So, I make sure they have plenty just in case I stroke out or forget who I am. Everybody has enough to last - just in case.
 

I am also OCD when it comes to their bedding, litter boxes and toys. My house is a mess, but their stuff is clean and minty fresh. This obsession led to a near disaster yesterday. I took one of the dog beds apart to wash the cover. The filling was nicely encased in a zippered sack, which I thought was sturdy, so I just left it on the floor. To my horror, I watched as Rooney started nesting in it, tearing the liner to shreds. Before I could stop her, considerable damage was done and loose filling was flying everywhere.  Andy didn't say a word as he picked it up and took it to safety. He didn't need to - the "look" said it all.
 
So, to sum things up in Matchettville today: We're fat and happy; cautiously optimistic; easily amused; clean and well fed. Not bad. Not bad at all.