Soft Paw [with a side of Sweet Honey in the Rock]

All you need to know is that you get to see "more Buddy," and we'll be fine, you and I, youse guys and me.

Don't worry, as soon as the need for a bathroom assumes gigantonormous proportions, I will find a way to exit this wheelchair and knee-knobble to the loo.  But at the moment, my legs won't work and I am -- as the Bible might put it -- sore irritated.  Sore afraid.  Sore stuck.  Not to mention sore sore.

—adv
	archaic direly; sorely (now only in such phrases as sorepressed, sore afraid)
[Old English sār; related to Old Norse sārr, Old High German sēr, Gothic sair sore, Latin saevus angry]

Until then, it's cat videos and anything else that is both inane and distracting.  Oh, a new episode of Hoarders is on.  Be still my heart.  Quick, give me something to clean, a feline to brush, lint to pick, dust to scatter, a suspicion of dirt!  I bet this show has inspired a whole heck of a lot of cleaning in Amerika.

Okay, back to the subject at hand.  Mostly, that is Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten Recently Discovered to be of the Maine Coon Variety.

I've previously explained that he is trained to the command "Soft Paw," by necessity, as his natural Paw State is far from being one of squishy-soft, pastel-colored angelic intentions.  His paws will one day be registered lethal weapons.  To the immunosuppressed among us, they are killers right *now*!

So the big-little guy loves to play Fetch with his mice, and will in fact, bug the badinage right out of you until you acquiesce to his every freaking fetching ploy and demand.  Mwa ha ha!  Help!  

In order to give the Soft Paw command some currency in the World of Buddy, we train him through his love of Fetch.  In short, we do what all animal lovers/owners do but I am trying so hard not to think of how I need to peeeeeeeeeeeee but cannot get out of this magnificent red Pronto that I will expound and pound upon the least little detail just to get through one more blessed [dry] minute.

Oh dear God, I'm gonna die laughing, at least.  Fred just flew by, telling me, at a high rate of speed, that he discovered that Marmy Fluffy Butt has organized the entire Feline Remnant of Marlinspike Hall such that Dobby the Runt and Buddy the Freakishly Large Kitten are pooping in one litter box, and urinating in a second one.  Marmy herself?  She pees in a third litter box, and poops... well, at the moment, she is pooping, very neatly and discreetly, right next to the paper we put down for her by the back door.  Right... the back door leading to the Private Palatial Porch.  Making yet another delightful obstacle to my getting out that door into the fresh, pine-scented air.  Wait!  That was yesterday's rant!

Anyway, God bless Fred.  Because I am not supposed to dabble in things kitty-litter related.  Also, thank the dear Lord that Fred shares every toileting detail with me as I would otherwise be oblivious to that important part of the animals' lives.  Now I know what Dobby has been whining about -- Marmy has extended the web of her powerful influence to actually designating which waste receptacles are to be used for which waste.  

shiver::of::pure::terror 

Right.

Hmm.

So.

Ah, yes!  Soft Paws.  I was able to make two very short videos of Buddy's training.  As usual, what I recorded turned out to be aberrant from the norm.  Dobby has become jealous of the Big-Little Guy and so his pink nose turns up quite close to the camera every time.  He's a bit of a diva.  And Marmy even has decided that there must be something inherently rewarding about this camera business, but when she pops up (she's the one who always looks a little confused), that scares Buddy in the extreme.  Her terrorism of him, early and often, is now paying its dividends.  In one of these videos, he has turned to chase the beloved mouse, after successfully tapping my hand at the Soft Paw command, and then he FREEZES.  That would be because Marmy Fluffy Butt decided to appear, just out of camera range.  It is a testimonial to her ridiculous power that the kitten nearly ceases to breathe, holds his crouch, and -- though we cannot see them -- allows his pupils to madly dilate as he points like a Bracco Italiano after feathered game in old Lombardy.

I've come to dearly love Buddy's face.  He is so clueless, you might think.  You might even hold this wrongheaded opinion for six months or so, and who could blame you?  Because until you have the chance to watch his cagey self on video -- hitting rewind with frequency -- you are fooled by the vacant expression, the goofy grin.

He's sly, this one.

He has developed little tics as he plays Soft Paw Fetch.  He wants to NOT tap my hand.  Or if he gives in, and goes for a tap, he wants to claw me to death, just a little.  But then he won't get the mouse.  So he bobs and weaves, ducks his head, does a little rope-a-dope.  Oh Lord, I have to pee!

If you see Buddy tap my hand but not receive the Fetch reward of a Tossed Mouse, it's because he forgot the soft part of the command.  When that happens, he does sometimes have to do some Quality Control calibrations, the first of which is always to offer his head as a paw replacement.  This is terribly important to him, so I give him verbal praise, but repeat the request for a Soft Paw.  It's cool, watching him weigh how much he wants what, what he's willing to do, etcetera.

All right, that's it.  I'll be right back.  If I drive the wheelchair to the threshold of the bathroom door and then throw myself forward with all my might, I am bound to hit porcelain of some kind.  Wish me luck.  If I am not back in 10 minutes, please, would someone call Tante Louise?