The one about the cat, the Jack Russell, and bedtime wrestling

27 Apr

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My two most constant convalescent companions are the ginger and white cat and the ginger and white Jack Russell.  Despite the difference in species they have reached an entente cordiale around their mutual colour schemes and appear to like each other a reasonable amount.

In reality I suspect the dog likes the cat and the cat tolerates the dog – he’s given her the odd swipe on the nose, just to prove who’s in charge you understand, when she thinks I, the person really in charge, naturally – is not looking, but regardless they live together in what I would imagine is the closest to inter-species harmony that can exist (unless you count M and I cohabiting with the Ls, which often feels like the same thing).

I’m way better equipped at the moment to manage the demands of the animal members of our household than the small human.  Yesterday – somewhat ambitiously, I admit, a mere week after surgery – M went out to work leaving me to do bedtime.  Fortunately L1 is a model of good sense, when required, as the second time I got down on my knees (not to beg, contrary to what could seem desirable at a point when I need them to behave themselves, but to put something else away) I got stuck down there.  Seeking a leverage point was pretty tricky, and L1 came to the rescue, helping me to haul myself up to standing in a way that kept both our dignities intact.

More was to come, though.  L2, like a predator sensing weakness in prey so diving straight for the jugular and not letting go until the victim is too weakened to resist, decided he wanted to stay and sleep in our bed following our time cuddled up together in there reading stories, knowing full well that I would be unable to drag him bodily into his own in my current condition.  I rapidly ran through the parenting persuasion gamut: cajoling, threatening 1 (me) and threatening 2 (M’s return), cajoling again, and finally begging; while L2 ran through the range of options that would persuade him to head own bed-wards (a toffee; a new game for his DS etc).  Fortunately he conceded the parenting point and headed, reluctantly, under his own steam for the reward of being termed ‘a kind little boy’, but it was a close call.

M will not be heading out for the night for another week or so.  And that, I tell you, is a fact.

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