TheCrockery

A Catholic perspective on the world and all the good things therein, especially books and food. Literature cum chocolate is the order of the day at The Crockery.

Name:
Location: A Collegetown, Undisclosed Location, United States

No longer a graduate student, Teresa is now a professional know-it-all.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

Increasingly Moved In

The movers dropped off all of our worldly goods at the beginning of August, and initially, we were quite enthusiastic about opening up boxes, moving furniture around, and placing books on bookshelves. At least, we were enthusiastic about finding such necessities as our plates and silverware, not to mention our dvd player and Leopoldtulip's Wii. Once all of the kitchen goods were unpacked, though, we seemed to lose steam. Then classes started, and the number of boxes unpacked per week slowed to a tiny handful.

There are still boxes littering our apartment, but today I am optimistic. Today I reached a milestone: I hung the last of the pictures on the wall. Technically, there are still a couple of photos that need to be put into frames, and there's still a suncatcher that I have yet to hang up because I don't know how to hang it, but since those items weren't on display in our previous apartment, they don't count. With the exception of a missing calendar, everything we used to have hanging up is now hanging up once again. (And, I was able to crush and dispose of two more boxes.) Woo hoo!

There's a second cause for woo-hooing: we now have cable! No longer must we rely on the sporadic reception of our bunny ears. Now, we're wired, with digital cable, no less. And as I sit at my computer, ostensibly working on academic Project A (but in reality catching up on message boards), I realize something very profound: cable is a bad, bad idea for a procrastinator. I am not even very fond of television, and yet it calls to me. It says "hey, you really ought to figure out how this all works before Leopold comes home, so that you can show him the ropes. Hey, you went to all the work of hanging pictures on the wall, and you deserve a break. Hey, you're going to get a repetitive stress disorder from too much typing if you work at the computer all day. Come to me. Bask in my warm glowing warming glow."

For now, I am resisting, but for how long? If you never hear from me again, O my brothers and sisters, know that I have been swallowed up by the monstrosity that is Comcast.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

The Incredibly Stupid Journey

This morning, Cricket the housecat escaped. Much panic ensued. There was much cursing, some frantic telephone calls, some prayer, and much speculation. I dressed in a hurry and raced out without my breakfast, calling "Cricket! CricketER! CRIKEY! Here, kitty kitty kitty!" and other such things.

"Why all the panic? He's just a cat!" you may say, and you'd be right, but he's the cat I took with me to graduate school. He is my first "grown up" pet. "He can survive outside," you might say, and you might be right. However, Cricket is an indoor-only cat, and he has been declawed. He does not know how to behave around cars. He cannot defend himself against dogs or cruel children. He is not vaccinated against FIV, so a bite from an infected cat could be fatal. He hasn't even been given preventative medicine for fleas, since he is never exposed to them. He has a collar and ID tag, but I never make him wear it. He was certainly not wearing his identification this morning.

After a time of fruitlessly calling his name, I went back and ate my breakfast, on the grounds that maybe he'd come back on his own. Then I went out again, calling for him. This time, I left the apartment complex and looked in the yeards of the nearest houses, occasionally calling "Cricket?" No Cricket.

I came back, and decided that I should walk the other direction past my apartment. I hadn't really gone this way yet. I was reluctant to go this way, because if you walk this way, you end up at a major through street. There's a large empty lot across from the apartment complex which might be appealing to a cat, but you have to cross the busy street to get to it. If I found Cricket there, it might be in the form of roadkill.

I don't know what made me look up at the second-floor apartment in the building next to ours. Maybe there was a sound. Maybe I was just scanning automatically. Either way, I saw a pair of huge green eyes set in a dark face, peering through the railing above me. "Cricket?" I asked. "CRICKET?" I think he made a tiny noise when he saw that I was addressing him, but he didn't come down to me. I had to go upstairs to get him. Still, he seemed relieved when I picked him up. "This isn't our apartment," I told him, but I don't think he really grasped that. Apparently all he knew about our apartment was that it was at the top of a flight of stairs. He had climbed up a flight of stairs; ergo, he must be home. He seemed to be expecting me to just open the door and let him in, and was surprised and upset when I carried him away.

So that's the subject of this post: how can a cat be so stupid? I thought that pets were supposed to have incredible homing instincts. They're supposed to be able to trek hundreds of miles to find their way home, right? So why is it that this cat couldn't even tell the difference between the landing outside of his apartment and the landing outside some one else's apartment? Or. . . behold my cynicism here. . . is that Cricket DID know the difference, but was secretly trying to escape from us and move in with someone else? Either way, I dub today's adventure "the incredibly stupid journey."