Field trip home to the Italian Mafia Shorthairs

I have been appropriately kitty-chastised for leaving the house for the weekend.

A rapid-fire, non-stop weekend. The end results: the first Dragon*Con staff meeting is over, we are back in Huntsville, and Sean is now moved out of Atlanta and into his new apartment in Huntsville. Oh, and I socialized with the TechOps crew (the blue-haired folks who make Dragon*Con actually happen), some apple pie was consumed, and it was all good.

We did a flash-quick drive back from Atlanta to Huntsville with most of Sean's belongings crammed into a Ryder truck; then we kamikaze-unloaded them into his new apartment so that he could get the truck returned before the 4:45 deadline.

His enormous couch is to be hereinafter referred to as "Bertha." That behemoth was quite a challenge to maneuver into his apartment—why can't sofa beds be made out of compounds that DON'T weigh as much as lead?

Spouseling and I arrived home tired, a bit sweaty, and promising each other that when next we move, that yes, we shall have movers handle everything for us. We are too lazy, too suburban, and quite frankly have too much crap to move it all ourselves.

Then, of course, Tenzing had to administer a thorough sniff-test to each of us ("Who was this strange cat you petted? Mmmm, you went several different places… This person smelled unusual, who was he? Oh, you brought me cheese—I love you! But—who was this strange cat who got in your lap? I didn't give him permission to do that!…" etc.). Took about five minutes per person, in minute snuffle-snifflings starting with our toes and progressing as far up on each of us as he could reach.

After some time, he was assured of both our continued humanity and eternal devotion to his kingly presence, and decreed that he should rest daintily upon my lap and nibble a shaving or two of the lovely Parmesan cheese I bought in a shop in Atlanta. After all, I did not bring the Parmesan to cook with or snack with—I brought it, of course, to reward his strangely un-feline fondness for things like cheese and tomato sauce.

I am convinced that the cats are a breed of their own: Italian Mafia Shorthairs. They're pudgy; they're temperamental; they know they're always right; and they have this strange, unholy (for felines) love for tomato sauce, garlic, or cheese.

My cats think the world was created by Chef Boyardee.
They won't touch chicken. As far as they're concerned, it's not even food.

My world here in Huntsville: strange and demented in its own special little way. It's good to be back.