(no subject)
I wake up at 5:30 this morning, thinking "basement cat is going to end up a smelly corpse unless I do something." So I grab a tin of albacore and a can opener and head downstairs.
Back to Thursday morning, when I realized I wasn't getting hot showers. I was down on my hands and knees in the basement trying to keep a splinter of wood lit long enough for the water heater's pilot light to catch. Something skittered off a box behind me. I swung the flashlight around just in time to see a little gray furry thing running into the middle of a pile of abandoned furniture and mattresses. "Awesome," I am thinking, "there are rats down here. Good to know."
Friday morning, I realize I've lit the water heater but not set the temperature to HOT. I put on mechanic's denim and work gloves and head down into rat country. After setting the temp, I swing the flashlight up to where the thing jumped from the day before, and it's looking back at me. A cautious-looking cat, not too feral. "Huh," I think. "If it can get in, it can probably get out. See you later, basement cat."
It takes about five days for the appropriate Voight-Kampff empathy response to kick in. So down I go again with the tuna this morning, and sure enough the fucker is still up on top of the heating ducts, maybe catching an occasional mouse if it's really lucky, but probably not.
The basement door is heavy enough to close by itself, so I prop it open with a toothpick and set the tuna can on the steps; close enough to smell enticing, but far enough away that the whole cat has to come through the door to get any fish.
It's not a have-a-heart trap, but here's hoping it's enough to get the thing out. And close the damned door so my water heater can stop working overtime. Come on, basement cat.
Back to Thursday morning, when I realized I wasn't getting hot showers. I was down on my hands and knees in the basement trying to keep a splinter of wood lit long enough for the water heater's pilot light to catch. Something skittered off a box behind me. I swung the flashlight around just in time to see a little gray furry thing running into the middle of a pile of abandoned furniture and mattresses. "Awesome," I am thinking, "there are rats down here. Good to know."
Friday morning, I realize I've lit the water heater but not set the temperature to HOT. I put on mechanic's denim and work gloves and head down into rat country. After setting the temp, I swing the flashlight up to where the thing jumped from the day before, and it's looking back at me. A cautious-looking cat, not too feral. "Huh," I think. "If it can get in, it can probably get out. See you later, basement cat."
It takes about five days for the appropriate Voight-Kampff empathy response to kick in. So down I go again with the tuna this morning, and sure enough the fucker is still up on top of the heating ducts, maybe catching an occasional mouse if it's really lucky, but probably not.
The basement door is heavy enough to close by itself, so I prop it open with a toothpick and set the tuna can on the steps; close enough to smell enticing, but far enough away that the whole cat has to come through the door to get any fish.
It's not a have-a-heart trap, but here's hoping it's enough to get the thing out. And close the damned door so my water heater can stop working overtime. Come on, basement cat.