things a mother might say
about her baby

"look at his head, i mean it's downright pudgy"

"do you think he's developmentally slow?"

recently on the turntable

michelle shocked
short, sharp, shocked

various
every great motown song - the first 25 years: volume one the 1960's

bob dylan
blood on the tracks

jane siberry
when i was a boy

irma thomas
in between tears

p j harvey
dry

dateline Wellington
23:53 hours
9 August 1998

It's surreptitious guerrilla warfare. Sly manuevours, stealthy stalkings, territory gained and given up, and truces not worth the paper they're unwritten on.

And more and more, Gump is becoming the aggressor.

The living room has become the main theatre of conflict. Here, and assuming an awake state - which is a big assumption, they're cats remember! - they'll be continually eyeing each other. Aware of any movement, any adjustment, any preparation.

Gump has claimed the heater. An important strategic position. In additional to its warming properties, geographically it lies close to the door. The only entry to and from the living room. Tess, who is more of an outdoors cat than Gump, has to pass through this door to the warmth of the living room, and is consequently vulnerable to an ambush attack. No warning, no hiss; just a leap, and a bat with an outstretched paw.

Tess, in a tactical mistake, has attempted to commandeer the baby's sheepskin rug and the baby's carry-cot. The rug is prized, propped on couch cushions, layered with a soft felt blanket, it's a place for a cat to luxuriate in. And the cot is snug and soft, nice to curl up in. But the United Nations, in the shape of Debbie, has declared both these places off limits to the warring parties. So the UN Peacekeeping force, that would be me, is forever lifting Tess up and putting her someplace else.

The traditional safe haven for Tess, our bed, has its borders temporarily closed. Either cat is only allowed entrance under strict UN supervision, and there's a curfew operating in hours of darkness.

Tess, then, is restless, on the move, forever a refugee . Circling the kitchen, slinking into the living room when Gump is asleep, hiding under the chairs. I try to make it up to her by giving her a piece of ham when I'm making my sandwiches in the morning, but I fear this is too little, too late. Her position as Number One cat is under serious threat.

And I find myself having to re-assess the intellectual capabilities of Gump, previously a somewhat oxymoronic concept. She obviously has a long term plan of occupation in mind, and to date is implementing it with clinical precision.

regular updates coming
as the war progresses