BerthaBlog

She’s starting to relax and explore the place. This morning she even got up on the couch, while I was there with Phurball in my lap, and had a sniff around the back of the couch where he usually sleeps. Phurball’s eyes were huge; he seemed to be asking me, “Aren’t you going to do something about this?!” But no, I was no help at all, and she finished her examination and went on her way.

She spent about twenty minutes this morning exploring the upstairs, meowing frequently. I don’t know if she’s still looking for her family, or if she’s just antsy—I think she’s looking for a suitable place to nest.

Shortly before he left for school, my youngest son noticed that she wanted to go into the basement. Phurball has him well-trained, and he opened the door for her. I made several searches through the basement before I found her and herded her back upstairs; the basement is chilly and piled with crap and I didn’t want her down there unsupervised. Must remember to tell the kids not to open the basement door for her.

Surprisingly it was the visitor who threw the first punch.

She came down again around lunchtime, attracted by the smell of the bacon my husband was cooking, with the belly-to-the-ground stance of a cat trying to keep a low profile. (My husband said “Why is she walking like that? She acts like we’re going to beat her.”) He offered her some bacon, but she only smelled it; what she’s really interested in is petting and reassurance.

So I sat on the floor and petted her some more. My son came over and petted her for a bit. My husband came over and petted her a little. She purred.

Phurball has been getting more at ease with her presence; he still keeps an eye on her, but he’s no longer glowering. He wanted to get in on all this petting, so he got up and strolled over. His ears were up, his fur was down, he was looking at me and not taking particular notice of the other cat.

She did not like him coming so close to her. She took a swipe at him, spitting vehemently. Swats were exchanged, harsh words were said, and they crouched a foot or so apart looking daggers at each other until I got the Bad Kitty bottle and asked, “Okay, which one of you is going to have to get it?”

The new cat, of course, has no clue as to the significance of the Bad Kitty bottle, but Phurball does. He gave me a wounded look and retreated under the chair. The new cat slunk back over to the fireplace and took up her station on the mantel.

Later my husband offered Phurball the bacon she had refused. I don’t know about him, but I’m finding the whole cat-to-cat interplay very interesting. I’ve never had more than one at a time before.

I wonder if I should mention to my husband that I think she might be pregnant.