The Dad brought us some things the other day. Those things included the following:
- A genuine La-Z-Boy recliner (slightly musty)
- A surprisingly comfortable couch (slightly worn)
- A television we don’t know works (with remote)
- Six steaks (vacuum sealed)
- A cat tree (slightly hairy)
There were some various other pieces of furniture that we still haven’t figured out where we’re putting – one of which is a beautiful table he made himself – and some art that belonged to my mother and some that belonged to me and RJ. Our apartment wasn’t particularly empty before, and now it’s turned into Hepzibah Smith’s from Half-Blood Prince. I haven’t decided which cat I’m calling Hokey yet, but it’s coming.
The recliner is pretty comfy, although it will be getting a thin coating of Febreze when Mister E can help me drag it outside to do so, and the same can be said for the couch. The cat tree is the real coup, though. We are talking about a piece of cat furnishing that almost reaches the ceiling and is taller than the bird cages. This is the sort of carpet-covered monstrosity that they sell at pet stores for upwards of $100. It’s both fascinating and terrifying.
The reason I never shelled out for one of these things is because I know my cats. If I went down to Ye Olde Pette Shoppe and laid down my hard-earned cash, it’s as good as guaranteeing that no cat will ever allow their toe-beans near it. While I was pretty sure that two out of five cats would show at least a little interest, I wasn’t sure enough to break out the debit card. Fortunately for the cats, The Dad volunteers.
You see, The Dad has many friends, each of whom have many things that they’re trying to get rid of. That’s where the couch, the television, the recliner, the cat tree and the steaks came from. Yes, even the steaks. The large furniture and electronics came from the woman for whom he volunteers with birds, the cat tree from a coworker who got it from another coworker whose cats wouldn’t touch it, and the steaks from his boss who bought half a cow and told his employees to have at it. Whatever you’re picturing in your head is probably exactly how it went.
But back to the cat tree. The menfolk brought it inside and I got out the vacuum to make sure I got the cat hair and nits off it. “Wonderful,” I said as I trimmed the strings off it. “They’re not going to touch this thing ever.”
That, by the way, was not one of the cats I assumed would be interested in the cat tree. He liked his little cave, though. After The Dad’s puppy left, another brave soul got on it and a third interested party has been seen rubbing her face on it. I’m still convinced that if we’d actually paid money for this thing, they would continue to show more interest in the recycling bin.
At the time of writing, the cat tree is being picked at by one of the cats. The apartment still smells vaguely burnt because Mister E and I do not know how to broil steaks properly (we still ate them as we are too poor to turn away free food). And the couch has not been peed on by Jumpy Cat. This is as close to “right with the world” as it gets around here.