Psy ops

With the global sogginess now in a general decline, and the newly imposed feeding procedures falling into an orderliness that approximates routine, I have noted a marked decrease in household pressure. The air is lighter, the rooms seem not so small, and we five may all live through this winter after all.

Time to get back to work.

First order of business: take advantage of the lull to re-establish the chain of command around here. Second: hone skills in preparation for the spring ahead and the influx of creatures both edible and adversarial. Third: enjoy myself a little.

The Man has been largely ineffectual this winter — captivated by the lights flashing from his big box, ingesting his pungent brownish water, or wheezing on an apparently stubborn hairball. Fabio seems content to dutifully and mindlessly follow the routines dictated by this new slime diet — he marches into his feeding chamber like a lobotomized sheep into the abattoir. The Rodent is equally preoccupied with Fabio's victuals, lurking outside the feeding chamber with his nose to the floor like some malnourished weasel.

Which brings us to the Woman. The one who boxed up Fabio for Dr. Fingerer, and then introduced carne mysterioso into the house. The one who tore down the walls by executive decree. The one who put the squirt on me just for limbering up my mandibles on Fabio's rear end.

So. It appears we have our test subject for spring training.

Last night I dusted off an old game — one of my favorites, which I usually reserve for the Man when the Woman is on extended leave— and a time-honored psychological exercise. It's brilliantly simple: just as the subject makes final preparations for sleep, I move slowly and deliberately up the bed, take up position about eight inches from her face, and give her my most stonefaced stare.

The subject usually responds to this with some friendly words and light pats, which I answer with a very subtle, whispering purr. As soon as she stops, and appears ready to turn out the light, I lean in ever so slightly, closing the distance between our heads without breaking eye contact. I remain frozen in this posture, unflinching and silent but for the low rumbling in my gullet.

Patience is the key to this game. You have to hold that stare no matter what. If the subject moves you, you must come right back and re-establish eye contact. And you must be prepared to hold that posture for hours. The results are great fun.

The Woman didn't want to turn off the light. Didn't want to close her eyes. Didn't want to turn away from me. The Man told her to ignore me (a seasoned player!), but she said she was afraid I would bite her if she looked away.

Yep, he sure might, was the Man's reply.

I dare say she didn't sleep too soundly. Shmool's still got it.