Mac and Loosh
We have just returned from a 10-day visit to Grandma and Grandpa's house in Peoria. Jack was in seventh heaven as he had unfettered access to "soutside" (outside) where he could run around in actual grass and drive his big wheel on the patio.
His big wheel rides consisted mostly of him announcing he was going to go the door (store) to "buy ice cream, bread, cheese, pakes (pancakes), booey (veggie booty) and mook (milk)." He would then roll himself to the other end of the patio, pretend to grab something off the brick of the house and put it on the back of his bike and then deliver the goods to us to taste. Lather, rinse, repeat approximately 75 times in an hour. As it required me to do nothing more than sit on a lawn chair and pretend to eat blue ice cream out of my hand, I was more than happy to indulge his game.
But then he would notice the cats eyeing us from inside the patio door. And he would beat us to the door, which he would then throw open so the cats could realize their manifest destiny at the edge of the patio. Our cats, Mac (Max) and Loosh (Lucy), have lived at Grandma and Grandpa's house since Jack was diagnosed with a cat allergy early in life. They are very much indoor cats. Except when Jack is around, and they make a break for the edge of the grass, where Lucy enjoys a sampling of Peoria's finest Kentucky bluegrass. Which she then throws up on the carpet a few hours later. It's good times.
Perhaps they want outside so badly because they get a welcome respite from the laps they are forced to run around the house in terror inside. You see, Jack's new favorite pastime is chasing the cats and the poor 14-year-old dog around the house screeching at the top of his lungs. When he corners one of them, usually the chill Max, he throws himself face-first into their fur and starts petting them. And by petting, I mean slapping the living daylights out of their backs. They then escape to the basement, causing Jack to inform us, "Mac, Loosh, potty! Nigh-night!" That's right buddy, they're probably using the litterbox, but likely because you literally scared the shit out of them.
His big wheel rides consisted mostly of him announcing he was going to go the door (store) to "buy ice cream, bread, cheese, pakes (pancakes), booey (veggie booty) and mook (milk)." He would then roll himself to the other end of the patio, pretend to grab something off the brick of the house and put it on the back of his bike and then deliver the goods to us to taste. Lather, rinse, repeat approximately 75 times in an hour. As it required me to do nothing more than sit on a lawn chair and pretend to eat blue ice cream out of my hand, I was more than happy to indulge his game.
But then he would notice the cats eyeing us from inside the patio door. And he would beat us to the door, which he would then throw open so the cats could realize their manifest destiny at the edge of the patio. Our cats, Mac (Max) and Loosh (Lucy), have lived at Grandma and Grandpa's house since Jack was diagnosed with a cat allergy early in life. They are very much indoor cats. Except when Jack is around, and they make a break for the edge of the grass, where Lucy enjoys a sampling of Peoria's finest Kentucky bluegrass. Which she then throws up on the carpet a few hours later. It's good times.
Perhaps they want outside so badly because they get a welcome respite from the laps they are forced to run around the house in terror inside. You see, Jack's new favorite pastime is chasing the cats and the poor 14-year-old dog around the house screeching at the top of his lungs. When he corners one of them, usually the chill Max, he throws himself face-first into their fur and starts petting them. And by petting, I mean slapping the living daylights out of their backs. They then escape to the basement, causing Jack to inform us, "Mac, Loosh, potty! Nigh-night!" That's right buddy, they're probably using the litterbox, but likely because you literally scared the shit out of them.
posted by Amy at
8:10 PM
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