But not without drama. First, behold His Sithness:



He's beautiful, isn't he? Poor baby, he is a scared little Sith Lord right now. ( cut for details of kitteh dramaCollapse )

The Mission has now entered Phase 2.

Joe called to let me know that Frances (Domino's grandmother) showed up with her face badly scratched. She had pressed her face into some leaves to staunch the blood, which covered the wounds, so Joe couldn't tell how bad it was. I had no clue that cats did this. But then, Frances is a tough and smart old gal.



I hope she'll be okay without medical treatment, because this cat can't be handled (she let me pet her for exactly two seconds while she ate in the old days) and is too damn wily to walk into a trap. If she shows any signs of infection, though, I'll have to try. Frances, you're too old to be getting into catfights. Get it together, my fellow geezer.

UPDATE: Joe just called to say that he fed Frances tonight, the leaves are gone, and she's looking much better. Tough, tough kitty. :)

But you couldn't tell by looking at me. The Escape from Witch Mountain was completed Saturday, with the aid of my sister (the sane one), my brother-in-law and my nephew. It took us all flipping day to move everything and clean the pencil-box; how can this BE? Was it bigger on the inside? Had I been living in a state of alleged Temporal Grace for six years? I will never know, and I don't bloody care. Wrenched back, fibro flare-up, swollen hands and shell-shock. Never. Again. I don't know how my sister managed to persuade me to do it ourselves. It would have been worth the extra money to have hired someone. We had rain in the beginning, mugginess all day, and rain at the end. And while we were cleaning I finally found the spot where my Feline Overlords hid when the Thunder Comes, the Ice Cream Truck Approaches, and the Strange Men Come In Without Mama Being There.

Under the bed in the corner. A layer a full half-inch thick of cat-belly fur, I swear to the Maker. I thought the Dyson would vomit machine oil and expire at the sight. Oy.

The new place is great. At least I think so. Cricket, however, has spent the past two days in the throes of some sort of psychotic episode, in which he hisses and growls at everything, lunges at his brother with claws bared, and clings to me like we're going down for the third time in a vat of pumpkin jam. Sasha has a scratch on his nose. I believe this episode is beginning to wane, though. He hasn't growled at the Van Gogh print in several hours. Sasha (being Sasha) has made two expeditions into Front Door Grass and Back Door Grass. Both were prematurely terminated by the frantic pursuit of a scolding, exhausted middle-aged woman who snatched him up and turned him upside down, exposing his white belly for the whole neighborhood to see. Owners. What a cat puts up with, honestly. Can't even mangle the screen door in peace. Sheesh.

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Not thinking about that right now. The phone guy didn't show up, but I do have cable TV and internet and my cell phone, so I'm not completely cut off from the world. I went into work yesterday, but the second day is always the worst, and it's living up to its reputation, so I took a sick day. I might even accomplish something, once the Aleve kicks in. So many boxes.

And so endeth my role in the saga of the Wicked Witch of the Complex (unless she sues me for something) and the feral cats. May they have a happier life than she. And a little karmic justice wouldn't be bad either.