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I was woken very early this morning by the sound of scrabbling claws and sad small mews. These noises worked into my subconscious for a bit -- I don't recall that they actually became part of a dream, but I was aware of them for a bit before I suddenly realized exactly what those noises meant and came fully awake.
Sure enough, I had made no mistake about the noises. My apartment has 9-foot ceilings. Seven and a half feet up the wall are decorative wooden mouldings. Also seven and a half feet up the wall, around 6:30 this morning, were the front paws of my cat. Her back paws were, say, a foot and a half below the front paws, scrabbling furiously against the wall as she tried to push herself up. Her presumed goal was to reach the top of the moulding of the adjacent window (I know there's a specific term for that, but I can't think of it (edit: it's the cornice)), which juts out more from the wall just enough that she could stand on it. However, she just didn't have the strength to pull herself up or anything to push against with her back legs.
Although this sounds funny now, I was not particularly amused at 6:30 in the morning by Nimiel's obvious foolishness. I lifted her off the wall, said "No! No!" - as if she'd understand - and put her on the floor. I should point out that she had tried her climbing attempt from the top of the short bookcase (about four feet high) between the bedroom windows. Now that I'd put her down and gotten back into bed, she promptly ran around to the living room and jumped up the shelves there to get to her spot on the top of the high bookshelves in the bedroom - on the other side of the window. Annoyed that she probably intended to make another attempt from that side, I leaped out of bed again, causing her to run back down off the shelves, and then shut her into the back half of the apartment, so I could get back to sleep without the distractions of further mad attempts to Conquer The Unreachable Heights Of The Apartment.
I spent most of the hour in church this morning fearing that I'd come home to discover she'd tried again and either (a) hurt herself falling down, or (b) actually succeeded and found herself stuck up there. Fortunately, she hasn't made a further attempt today that I've seen, but she has sat on top of the short bookshelf in the bedroom and mewed wistfully, gazing up at the Unconquered Heights. I fear what tomorrow morning may bring.
Sure enough, I had made no mistake about the noises. My apartment has 9-foot ceilings. Seven and a half feet up the wall are decorative wooden mouldings. Also seven and a half feet up the wall, around 6:30 this morning, were the front paws of my cat. Her back paws were, say, a foot and a half below the front paws, scrabbling furiously against the wall as she tried to push herself up. Her presumed goal was to reach the top of the moulding of the adjacent window (I know there's a specific term for that, but I can't think of it (edit: it's the cornice)), which juts out more from the wall just enough that she could stand on it. However, she just didn't have the strength to pull herself up or anything to push against with her back legs.
Although this sounds funny now, I was not particularly amused at 6:30 in the morning by Nimiel's obvious foolishness. I lifted her off the wall, said "No! No!" - as if she'd understand - and put her on the floor. I should point out that she had tried her climbing attempt from the top of the short bookcase (about four feet high) between the bedroom windows. Now that I'd put her down and gotten back into bed, she promptly ran around to the living room and jumped up the shelves there to get to her spot on the top of the high bookshelves in the bedroom - on the other side of the window. Annoyed that she probably intended to make another attempt from that side, I leaped out of bed again, causing her to run back down off the shelves, and then shut her into the back half of the apartment, so I could get back to sleep without the distractions of further mad attempts to Conquer The Unreachable Heights Of The Apartment.
I spent most of the hour in church this morning fearing that I'd come home to discover she'd tried again and either (a) hurt herself falling down, or (b) actually succeeded and found herself stuck up there. Fortunately, she hasn't made a further attempt today that I've seen, but she has sat on top of the short bookshelf in the bedroom and mewed wistfully, gazing up at the Unconquered Heights. I fear what tomorrow morning may bring.
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