Sherm has come for a visit.
With the exception of one hideous experiment in the rescuing of motherless (and untrainable) kittens, we have not had cats in the house since we’ve been married.
I’ve always had cats. I love cats.
Scott is allergic to cats.
Sherman is here because my folks are on their way to Branson to justify their recent and possibly ill-thought-through timeshare purchase. Sherman is not welcome in the timeshare.
This isn’t the first time Sherman has graced us with his presence. Earlier this summer he came to stay for a few days and was promptly chased off the property in a whirl of cat fur and claws by our aggressively territorial farmcat population (headed up by the notorious leader of the previously-mentioned failed experiment crew, who still holds a grudge at being turned back outside). My mom, bless her soul, was confident in Sherman’s ability to hold his own with our outdoor cats. She was concerned for them. He barely survived the ordeal.
These days, when he visits, he is content to stay indoors, where it is warm, and where he can incessantly yowl at the cats on the other side of the patio door. All. Day. Long. Asserting his dominance over the peasants.
The peasants barely give him the time of day anymore, but it doesn’t faze him. He hisses. He screams. He occasionally throws himself at the glass. He is the alpha male. Until Scott comes home and cracks the door a little just to watch the fun.
Thus far, in between Sherman’s pampered and pathetic displays of masculinity, he’s only thrown one potted plant down the stairs, and may possibly be beginning to understand that his domain does not include the table. Or the counter.
And thanks to the sub-zero temperatures that our bedroom reaches when the door is closed, he’s enjoying sleeping with us. Scott hasn’t even complained. I think they’re developing a rapport.
In other news, we’re 10 days into November. What?!?
The weather has undergone some impressive changes. Seems like I was just freeing captive milkweed potentials a few days ago. Oh, wait… I was.
I’m not complaining. With a fire at my back, I will welcome the snows like an old friend. Still, that was a quick changing of the guard…
Speaking of changings of the guard, we’ve got a new governor in Wisconsin. My feelings on the matter are best characterized as ambivalent, for this fence-sitter is content to wait and see. So we will wait and see.
Rachel and I did, however, get to shake the good governor’s hand a few days before the election. Tony and Mandela parked their sideshow outside The Acoustic, and came in to meet their people.
The gaggle of old ladies cheered like schoolgirls for the boys in plaid. And yes, that’s a baby Tony’s about to greet. I am happy to report he kissed no one.
Funny thing, double parking. On a narrow street, you effectively manage to stop all downtown traffic while you mingle with the people. I won’t hold it against him. But there was plenty of room a half block down to pull that bad boy over. I’m just sayin.’
In between cleaning up potting soil and removing the cat from my keyboard, I patched those spark holes in my brand new jacket. Tenacious Tape to the rescue. Next one’s gonna’ be a silhouette of Sherman.
And there’s a 1/2 cow waiting for us at the butcher. In a desperate attempt at freeing up enough freezer space for all that meat, we learned to use our pressure canner last week. We thawed and canned all the apple cider from this summer (4 gallons?) and all the bone broth from who knows when (22 quarts). The pantry is full, but curiously, so are the freezers. Some heinous laws of food expansion are at work here.
Also, in a fit of productivity, Sarah and I decided that never again would I have to clean another chocolate chip bag that avalanched right out of our over-populated baking shelves and plunged directly into the butter dish.
So. Many. Mason Jars.
Life is good in front of the fire. We’re settling in for the winter. Emily’s still off housesitting, but she’ll get to enjoy the rest of Sherman’s sojourn here with the rest of us starting tomorrow.
‘Til next time,