I wake up at daylight, or just before, and attempt to get out of bed to go to the bathroom—unfortunately, there are three cats sleeping on my side of the bed with me. Maggie is atop my feet, Ocie is on one side, and Mr. Poozle is sleeping on my other side, on the edge of the bed (this used to be Earl's position, before he was killed; then it was Sam's, but he has taken to sleeping on the kitchen table, which means I must put a towel down before bed or spend half an hour removing cat hair from everything before anyone can eat; now Mr. Poozle guards me from whatever might emerge from under the bed and try to get me). John, on the other side of the bed, is catless. This is Not Fair At All, especially since he never gets up until ten or so; by then all the cats are elsewhere. Shedding cats, I struggle out of bed and find shoes (either my plantar fasciatis is back or the arthritis has invaded my feet; I can't walk barefoot anymore with any comfort. Drat.), then navigate to the bathroom, avoiding Dinah (crouching in the hall, glaring balefully at Victoria, who is safely ensconced in the laundry basket atop the washer), Ysabeau (grabbing my sleeve from her perch on top of several boxes of yarn stored in the hall), and Darla (coming out of the kitchen, inquiring whether it isn't time for a little something to eat, since the sun is up, after all?), and stepping on Ysabeau's fur mouse.
Mr. Poozle needs to go out. So does Sam. So does Ocie. We have five four litter pans, but these three prefer to go outside, even if it's freezing (which it is this morning). Ocie needs to come in. I open a couple of cans of wet food and set out ten little bowls. Sam needs to come in. The food is divided and set out—Darla, Ysabeau, LeeLee and Sam eat in the kitchen. Victoria eats on the washer, safe from Dinah (who, for reasons known only to her, thinks Victoria is Satan incarnate and follows her around when she's inside, LOOKING at her). Dinah eats in the hall where she can keep an eye on Victoria. The rest eat in the back where it's warm: Maggie on the cat tree; Kali on the counter she almost never leaves, except to flee into the closet when the vacuum cleaner emerges; Ocie on the table next to my sewing machine; Sam in front of the stove. Mr. Poozle needs to come in, and jumps up on my sewing chair to have his breakfast. Ysabeau wanders into the back, and samples whatever is left in various bowls. Darla has eaten all hers, and wants more. Mr. Poozle needs to go back out. Sam lies down with his head under the stove and naps for a bit. I manage to take a shower and get dressed while they're eating. Everyone else finishes, so I put what they've left into Darla's bowl and she finishes that too. Sam wakes up and needs to go back out.
I put catfood on the front porch, so E.J. Katt from next door can eat when he comes over to see whether we have anything better than he has at home, and to schmooze with Mr. Poozle. They are supposed to be sworn enemies—Mr. Poozle makes a great show of bristling and stalking around when we're watching, but I've seen them sitting companionably in the sun when they think no one is looking. Sam hates E.J. (I have no idea what his real name is, but we refer to him at E.J. Katt), and there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth when they meet, but it's mostly posture. He is easily twice Sam's size.
I put catfood in the bowl on the back porch, so the blue jays and the crow with the bad wing (apparently it was broken and healed badly; he/she holds it out from his body at an awkward angle, and can't fold it in. He can fly, but not far or fast, so he stays mostly in the trees out back.) can eat. Sometimes I put corn out, too, but there isn't any up here right now, and I don't want to traipse down to the goat lot this early, so they will make do with cat food. I am cultivating the neighborhood crows; I feed them and they keep the hawks away from my chickens.
I put catfood in the bowl on the side porch, and knock out the ice from the water bowl and refill it. I do the same with the birdbath hanging in the tree, and the old frying pan with no handle that doubles as bird bath and cat waterer out in the yard. I check the sunflower seed feeders, the suet feeder. the thistle feeder for the finches, the platform feeder for the cardinals and squirrels, and the regular seed feeders—all full, since I remembered to fill them last night. Sometimes I don't. I throw out peanuts for the crows and jays and squirrels, and a scoop of seed (actually mixed scratch grain, sunflower seeds and regular birdseed) for the doves.
I uncover the tubs of greens against the house—we're experimenting this winter. These are Japanese greens (red mustard, tatsoi, and two other things I've forgotten the names of) in plastic tubs against the south side of the house, where it's warmest. Someone gave John a stack of old windows, so we put some of those over the boxes at night and take them off in the morning before the sun hits them. So far things are doing nicely. . .
(This was taken a couple of weeks ago; the leafy ones are up above the top of the tub now, and we have to prop the windows up with splits of wood to keep them off the leaves.)
Mercifully, I don't have to feed the chickens or goats—John feeds them in the evening, and there's always enough left for the morning meal. Besides, right now William and the goats are busy scarfing down fallen leaves; and John put a bale of straw into The Hovel last night, so there's that too. The chickens/turkeys are still foraging in the garden, and the guineas fly out into the yard for their breakfast . . . which is OK; they clean up the spilled birdseed that no one else eats. If it's below freezing, I need to haul jugs of hot water down to the chicken lot and goat lot to thaw their water. (The goats have a plastic pond to drink from, but in the winter we keep a 5-gallon bucket up near the gate so we can keep some water thawed for them if it's below freezing for days on end like it was last winter. The chicken waterers are black plastic trays originally for changing car oil, which are easy to thaw out.) It isn't that cold yet, so I don't have to put on layers of clothing to go out.
Sam needs to come in again, and stations himself in front of the back door where he can glare at the crow eating his cat food . . . Ysabeau, Dinah and LeeLee are lined up at the windows, watching the titmice and squirrels. Maggie is on the cat tree, watching a wren in the fig tree. Ocie and Kali are on the counter in my work area, watching bluebirds in the pokeberries and cardinals in the weeping cherry.
I go wash up cat bowls and whatever's left from last night (sometimes I wash the dishes after supper, and sometimes I don't) and turn on the heat under the coffeepot. I go through the back, picking up dirty clothes, piling the blankets and pillows that have been pushed off the bed on a bench (we have a heating conflict: I am menopausal and have nifty hot flashes that keep me nice and warm most of the time. John has lost weight, with resultant lowered blood pressure, and thinks that a nice temperature for the back of the house is about 80 degrees. I think a good sleeping temperature is about fifty, with lots of blankets. I usually lose this particular battle, and spend a lot of time sneakily opening the back door to let some air in.), and generally tidying up—scoop the litter pans, pick up the cat toys and put them back in the big basket, replace whatever books were knocked over by climbing cats in the night, refill the pot of water on the wood stove. I water the plants in the back—lemongrass (3 big pots, which may or may not live over the winter, but the cats like to chew on it), lemon thyme (not doing well, but still alive), geraniums, a couple of amaryllis, assorted paperwhites, parsley, asparagus ferns, a pot of sanseveria, a ratty spider plant, a couple of philodendrons, and something that I think is salad burnet (it came up unexpectedly in a pot, so I brought it in to see what would happen). I don't have a really good place to overwinter things (the back room is sunny, but too warm, and the other room with a southern exposure has only a tiny window, so I just cram in whatever I can. The aloe lives there, and the lemon verbenas, and my sole fern.) There are the plants in the library, too (see previous), and a spiderplant, some chives, and a jar of rooting spider plantlets in the kitchen window.
Then I make a cup of something hot (tea or the obscenely expensive Tazo Chai mix that I love, but hate to pay for—or, today, the Russian tea mix that Mom won at the bazaar but can't drink), check to see if anyone wants in or out again (not today; Sam is out, Mr. Poozle is out, Victoria has settled in for a nap on the dirty clothes, and everyone else is sleeping again), and sit down for a while.
Except that Dinah is asleep in my chair.
