When we adopted our cats, we wanted to pay homage to their Wisconsin roots, so we named them Laverne and Shirley. It’s not like they walk around saying “Ope” all the time or cheer on the Packers, but they are Dairy State cats through and through. How do I know this?
They love cheese.
Our last cat, Sydney, was a seafood fiend. These two couldn’t care less about it; we’ve offered them an occasional bite of tuna or shrimp (Sydney’s faves) and they’ll sniff it, maybe give it an exploratory lick or two, and then wander off, leaving it uneaten. The same goes for chicken and beef.
But cheese is another story. Laverne and Shirley are gaga for gouda and cherish cheddar. They think Muenster is marvelous, provolone is purr-fect, American is amazing, and Swiss is swell. Far from finicky, they even find feta fantastic.
You know how some cats come running whenever they hear a can opening or a rustling bag? These two are like a bolt out of the blue at the mere sight of the cheese grater. Once we start cutting the cheese (err…so to speak), they’re crying and begging and weaving between our legs, tails twitching, licking their chops, and we are not MADE OF STONE, people, so of course we give them a piece or two.
Tara calls this “paying the cheese tax.”
Maybe I’ve worked for the government too long, but I’m okay with this. Much like I’m willing to pay a few extra cents on a gallon of gas to help fund the infrastructure, I will gladly share a few bites with the cats if that ensures peace, harmony, and a ready supply of cheese in the fridge.
Birds of a Feather
Lately, my life has been going to the birds. Literally.
First, there was the wild turkey that scooted across my patio one morning when I was working in the basement.
The following week, I was roaming around the UW-Madison Arboretum on my lunch break in search of spring blossoms but, instead, came across these guys. They stared me down, no doubt guarding their harem. I have never seen so many turkeys in one place, unless you count the supermarket right before Thanksgiving.
And just this morning, when I arrived at CheeseGov HQ, I found this sandhill crane standing patiently in front of the doors. Looked like he was waiting for somebody to let him inside. I wanted to assure him that walk-ins are always welcome, but our lobby didn’t open for another five minutes.
My supervisor told me there were issues with sandhill cranes breaking windows near the cafeteria a few years ago when they saw their reflections. Yikes! Sounds like something out of a Hitchcock movie. CheeseGov had to replace the windows with non-reflective glass to prevent this from happening again. Majestic as these creatures are, I wouldn’t want to tangle with one. I had a close encounter while walking through a park last year and it still kinda gives me nightmares.
The birds are getting bigger with each encounter, which means it won’t be long until I cross paths with an ostrich.
Cool.
The Four-Day Rule
My parents left yesterday morning and are now back home in the PNW. Other than the weather — which annoyingly wasn’t all that bad, just enough to drive them inside for happy hours — they had a great visit. (I say “annoyingly” because, if the weather is going to mess with plans, I’d rather it did something exciting, like whip up an awesome thunderstorm or dump a foot of snow.)
If you’re going to have the operation, you know, have the operation.
(Super random pop culture reference that at least one of you will get.)
Naturally, the afternoon of their departure, the temperature climbed to a balmy 78°. I swear I could hear my dad wailing from 2,026 miles away. What can I say? Mother Nature is a fickle gal with a cruel sense of humor.
Feeding guests always takes some planning, but I’d say we pulled this feat off admirably based on the way they raved over our cooking. They were especially impressed with my Cincinnati chili and rum cake, and Tara’s spring mix salad with fried goat cheese and fish tacos. (Before you reach for the Tum’s, these were all separate meals.) My mom also whipped up a couple of her specialties, which was greatly appreciated.
Dad, on the other hand? Zero contributions. In fact, he drank my bourbon. What a freeloader.
We had a great time, of course, but houseguests always disrupt your routine. That’s why I came up with a 4-day rule. Four days, I believe, is the ideal length of time for a visit; it’s not so long that you get sick of each other, but long enough that you don’t feel rushed. You can pack plenty of sightseeing into four days without doing so much that you wear yourself out, or you can sit on your ass for four days without feeling too much guilt. Win-win, baby!
(My parents get an exemption since they made me and stuff.)
So, when Tara texted me yesterday saying, I haven’t been this excited to be a slug in ages, I laughed out loud. I get it, babe. It’s hard to be “on” for eight days straight. I know my parents are reading this, and I know they’re equally happy to be back home. Sleeping in a strange bed and living out of a suitcase is no picnic either.
Besides, we’ll see them again before the summer is over…though I can’t promise the weather will cooperate any better!
What food does your cat (or dog) find irresistible? See any large birds lately? What do you consider the perfect length of time for visits?
Mark My Words 
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