Someone once defined a specialist as a person who knows more and more about less and less. I think I can legitimately call myself an alien specialist because the only alien who is moving is the yellow one and it’s not moving very much. I think Frica moved it a few inches on the bed so it was next to her when she slept, but after hauling wood and shoveling ice and snow for a good chunk of the day, I can honestly say I don’t remember much after my head hit the pillow. This morning I moved the alien back to the bench so she’ll have to move it farther if she’s moving it at all.
The cat has appropriated the pile of nonskid rug stuff in the back of the closet for a bed. I decided this is a good thing because he is the only one of the quadrupeds who does not get a daily brushing (because I have no desire to face death or maiming on a daily basis) and he contributes more than his share to the hair floating around this place. Although I have yet to verify this, it seems like that sticky stuff ought to act like a sort of fly paper for cat hair which would be fine with me.
I also discovered that Fric is more concerned about BeeBee getting her food than her puppies. I’m so concerned that she–Fric–has enough to eat while she’s nursing that I tend to overdo when I have to go out. Yesterday I made a 20-minute run to the post office and left her enough food to guarantee quality milk production should, God forbid, the highway collapse under the weight of all the political bs floating around and I had to make a detour through Spain to get back home again. This meant there was a fair amount left in her bowl later. Unlike BeeBee who is a food vacuum cleaner who will suck up anything, Frica weighs her options. If there’s something better on the horizon–such as, in this case, a fresh dinner–why eat the leftovers? Consequently, when Bee stuck her head in the pen and started to snarf down what was left in the bowl, Fric just laid on the rug and watched her. And even as I write this, BeeBee has walked back and forth in front of the pen between it and Fric, pausing in the open door to sniff in the direction of the pups then casually but purposefully swinging her head toward the food bowl Fric had carefully hidden under a mound of paper. Instead of going into full Cujo mode as she did earlier this morning, Fric just watched her and it was Mother Two-Legs who gestured to Bee to get her short little corgi butt over here which she, surprisingly, did.
Once the puppies started making “I’m awake, feed me” murmurings, Fric went into the pen and ate just about everything before going into the box to feed them. When she was in the box nursing and Bee approached, she started growling at her again. The problem, which is always a problem with Bee, is that she can’t hear and her vision isn’t that great, either, so she misses a lot of Fric’s preliminary warning. The result of this is that, unless I keep Bee out of the way, the puppies experience some less than serene meal times during which their mother acts like a grizzly with PMS. Right now, for example, Bee is on the chair with me where she alternates between trying to put her needle nose on the keyboard and using it to work out anything that’s in my pockets. Consequently, if I don’t get a Pulitzer for these entries, you’ll know why.
The puppies are also becoming more vocal. Yesterday one of the brindles barked then jumped back in surprise at the sound. Pretty funny.
Meanwhile Watson the hound is staying down by the woodstove, possibly because it’s warmer down there, but more likely because the cat is sleeping in his drawer.
On the left is a picture I took of them yesterday at 19 days old when I had them out on the floor and they took a snack break. On the right for comparison is one I took when they were 3 days old. There’s no way those aliens could fit in the box now.
