The small black cat who lives amongst us has decided that, if birds and bees and packrats and moths are off-limits, then plants are the next best things to kill and carry around. A small pot of fragrant grass has taken a beating lately, but better that, I believed, than my bougainvilleas, outdoing themselves lately in blossoms. The grass is hardy and has shown a willingness to come back strong, even when assailed. The bougies? I’d just as soon not test them.
After three stern warnings, though, and an apparent cease-fire with said feline, I propped up in the other room to do nothing or little, only to find my toes sprayed with dirt from the grass plant that the backsassing black cat had torn out by the roots and was dragging across the floor by leaps and impressive bounds. The message seemed to be: this is what I will do to the blooming things if you ever try to sleep again, person. This. This here.
And so, once again, we know who is not the boss in this house. And who is.