Peace offerings

The Boy and the Cat have had a rocky relationship since he was in utero. The Cat, Josephine, was deeply suspicious of my belly as it grew and her favorite place to flop disappeared and also resentful that there was a place in the house -- the baby's room -- that she was no longer allowed to roam freely. The Boy was rather noisy when he first came home, and then he became mobile and the poor Cat realized how bad life could be. 

But I've always said Josephine loves him somewhere in her cold feline heart, and I know The Boy loves her. Kizz-zee and Jo-o were two of his first words. He delights in chasing her and bothering her when she's lazily draped in a windowsill, but he seems to understand Josephine is tolerating him and needs -- no, deserves -- tribute. 

I heard The Boy get into the cat-food cupboard this weekend while I was making Derby pies and, without turning, told him to get out of it. The thud of the nearly Boy-sized food container followed and I knew he hadn't listened, but I was mid-pie and figured the worst that could happen was his eating or spilling the Cat's food. When I turned around, I saw The Boy with his fat little fists full of catfood, a trail of bits between Josephine's bowl and the cupboard. The Boy had been filling her bowl a handful at a time, apparently realizing the food container was too big for him to dump. There also was a golfball in her water dish. Not sure what that was about. 

But maybe there will be peace after all.