October 6, 2011
As a social scientist, I am trained to observe, record and analyze.
Recently, I have noted a correlation between my ability to mediate feline malcontent and time of day.
Morning, I'm your girl. Call on me to separate your frantic felines from their hissing, spitting, general growling and smacking at one another.
Yesterday my reflexes were lightening quick creating a formidable, non-injurious block against Dibley's chasing Goblet up the stairs after one of her infrequent visits to the lower regions of the house.
Admittedly, she is venturing out more often, however, not often enough for Stephen who worries that she is becoming even more anti-social than she's already demonstrated.
And the exercise she experienced, also infrequent, was more than beneficial to her overall physical well being.
In fact, Stephen's worry for her has resulted in our not only moving a litter box into our room, but also her food.
Her not eating causes much concern for someone in our happy home.
While I think she could stand to lose a few pounds.
Me and the vet.
Back to negotiating.
Supper time, I am less engaged in the actual process of negotiating and lean more toward time outs in separate corners.
With sometimes less-than-friendly movements spurned by my exponentially increasing exhaustion from teaching three classes, meetings with students who just can't seem to understand what it is I want them to do no matter how well I think I explain it, or how much sense it makes to me, and the always present familial responsibilities that follow me where ever I go thanks to the horrific and completely unnecessary act of texting.
Meaning I am tired when I come home.
And even the happy faces of loving puppies and adorable felines aren't enough to sustain me through an entire evening.
Even though "evening" is a lose term that encompasses the time period from 7-9 pm as I am usually sound asleep by 9.30 pm.
Including weekends.
Especially weekends.
Late night-early morning I am a completely useless negotiator.
Dibley has taken to late night visiting with Goblet.
Whether or not Goblet wants late night visits is a moot point.
He still makes them.
In the wee hours of the morning, I am awakened by a growling, unhappy, generally pissed-off-that-no-matter-what-she-does-this-keeps-happening Goblet.
Staring beady-eyed at Dibley, who, non-plussed, is sitting in front of her wondering why she's so consistently so hostile.
I realized the other night, after hauling myself from under the warmth of my sheets, blankey and duvet, Stephen snoring beside me oblivious to the cacophony of an irate Goblet, that Dibley is non-plussed because he can't hear her growling and is apparently unable to read her facial expressions of body language, rendering him the feline embodiment of Sheldon Cooper.
And Goblet has yet to understand this about him.
Provided she would even care if she did.
In fact, caring that Dibley is unable to hear them or read them is of little concern to Goblet or or any of the other cats and dogs in this animal infested loony bin I call home.
And if I want to return to any semblance of sleep, and I always do unless I am plagued by some thought that pops into my head while I crawl from the depths of my bed, rendering me unable to return to slumber which happens more frequently than you would think, there is only one appropriate course of action.
Toss, gently, Dibley out of the room and shut the door, effectively calming Goblet enough that she'll settle down and go back to sleep allowing the rest of us who actually awaken when sensing distress in the force to do the same.
Rude, elemental and primal though it may be, sometime just shutting the door on your problems is the only effective solution.
Especially when desperately needed and wanted sleep is involved.
Unfortunately, this has never been a viable course of action when dealing with the kids or Stephen.
Undaunted by continued failure, I am going to keep trying.
Observe and refine.
That's the social scientists model.
Title Lyric: Shutting the Doors by Kirsty MacColl
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