Listening and watching

pausing from piles of paper

Spiegel im Spiegel

a cello and a piano

slowly thoughtfully


a hand lifts slowly

in the air


then gently hits the key

but it is in the pauses

that the beauty lies

and then

a touch on my shoulder

a paw tentatively rests

and pauses


have you forgotten that I’m here?

she watches the pianist

and his balletic hand

pause and listen

I tell her

listen to the pauses

that’s where the music lies.

Lent thoughts -Peace

Cats have been on my mind this past weekend. A friend whose cat died recently mourns her loss. Another friend is moving house and her cats are anxiously sitting in the packing boxes. And Rita Kitten decided my lap was the best place to be yesterday afternoon until my legs went numb.

Imagine my delight, then, when today’s Lent reading took me to Janet Morley’s book ‘the heart’s time’ and this poem by DH Lawrence.


All that matters is to be at one with the living God
to be a creature in the house of the God of Life.

Like a cat asleep on a chair
at peace, in peace
and at one with the master of the house, with the mistress,
at home, at home in the house of the living,
sleeping on the hearth, and yawning before the fire.

Sleeping on the hearth of the living world
yawning at home before the fire of life
feeling the presence of the living God
like a great reassurance
a deep calm in the heart
a presence
as of the master sitting at the board
in his own and greater being,
in the house of life.

Morley goes on to talk about the ‘profound relaxation of the cat before the hearth’ being about contemplation and being fully present in the presence of God and of the present moment. ‘To anyone who has watched a cat extend its whole body in ecstatic sleep, exposing the fur of its impossibly long belly to the warmth of an open fire, the image is compelling. It is the antithesis of any sort of hunched-up fearful prayer; rather the animal arches itself to experience the greatest possible pleasure from the presence of the fire. It may not understand what causes the warmth it enjoys, but it intends to receive maximum advantage from this source of life.’

I look at Rita Kitten now, curled up not stretched out, and envy her peacefulness. She has no To-Do list. No worries or concerns about phone calls to be made. No emails to answer, no preparations to be made for this or that… She twitches an ear towards the sound of children playing outside and decides she can’t be bothered going to hiss at them through the window. Better to just stay cosy and be. Food will come, she is sure of it.

Today I wish to be more like a cat.

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Is this the most expensive cat’s toy?

When Son #2 was looking after Lucy Pussy and Rita Kitten while I was sleeping in a library, they were rather stressed out. A cat-loving friend of his brought one of his cat’s toys round for them to play with. Since we got Rita Kitten Lucy Pussy has not deigned to look at a toy, let alone play with one. Which is a shame as she is now a fat-cat and could do with the exercise. So when Son #2 told me that not only had Lucy Pussy played with this new cat toy, but that they had played together, I was frankly amazed. This is something my heart has been longing for so I immediately asked for the name and set out to purchase said miracle toy.

Cat toySo for £12.55 (I see it has gone down in price today) I bought the originally named Cat’s Meow. It consists of a sort of robovac hard plastic thing with an attached parachute affair out of which peeks a plastic mouse’s tail. The motorised tail can be set to slow, medium, fast or random and whirls about under the parachute and cats can’t resist. So they say.

What they don’t say is that it needs batteries. A lot of batteries. And they don’t last very long. Son #2 informs me they are the rectangular ones (PP3) and you need three of them.  His friend got rechargeable ones so I had a look online but couldn’t find any chargers that did 3 at a time. In fact it wasn’t clear whether they’d even do two because they are all multi-chargers so I went to my nearby Maplins where a lovely lady said you could only get them to charge two at a time so I bought a multi-charger and three rechargeable batteries. Total cost £34.96. So that’s now a grand total of £47.51 for a piece of plastic, a flimsy tail, and enough batteries to keep my smoke alarms going for the rest of my lifetime.

Came home, ripped open all three batteries (yes, you know where this is going, don’t you?) only to find that it was not PP3 batteries at all, but C batteries that were needed. Back in the car to Maplins (but let’s leave the petrol costs out of this, shall we?)  ‘Fessed up to same nice woman that I was an idiot for listening to Son #2 and should have read the instructions and purchased three rechargeable C batteries for £13.98. A bargain as they were about to go up in price. (That’s £61.49 now if you’re interested.) Batteries installed and the motor began to whirr. And whirr and spin around like a demented robovac. That’s when I learned there is no off switch. Round and round it went as I tried to screw in the teeny tiny screw in and it kept falling out. Whirr, spin, whirr. Grab instructions to look for off switch on diagram. No, no mention of off switch. Whirr, whirr, grindy noise (that’s when I was leaning on it firmly to try and screw in teeny, tiny screw). Forced teeny, tiny screw in and know it will probably never, ever come undone again and cats appear to see what all the noise is. Cats get very excited when they recognise the Cat’s Meow and want to play before I even have tail attached. Learn from instructions that you need to undo top thing to fit parachute underneath and then reattach. This is not as easy as it sounds. Twenty minutes later we are ready to attach tail which is not easy as it whirrs round and back and forth and looks like it really shouldn’t be forced on too much or it will split plastic. Find off switch! Hurrah! (Just in case you are ever likely to purchase this most expensive cat’s toy the off switch is found if you press the speed switch from slow to medium to fast to random… and then once more for OFF!)

By now I am exhausted. And poor. The cats are champing at the bit. Put Cat’s Meow on floor and stand back to be amazed at their love of this new toy and first-time friendliness and camaraderie with one another. Lucy Pussy stands back and watches Rita Kitten romp round and round trying to catch the plastic tail. She looks disdainful. She looks sad. She looks as if her world has come to an end. Rita Kitten doesn’t care. She is having the time of her life. The parachute thing is getting bunched up but she doesn’t care one jot.

After five minutes Lucy Pussy casually walks over, closer and closer… will she play? Lucy Pussy sits on the parachute and the tail. All play comes to an end abruptly.

By this time I have been up and down, sorting the parachute, and am exhausted. The Cat’s Meow grinds and grinds trying to whip the tail around but Lucy Pussy sits resolutely firm. I nudge her off and finally they play together. For the first time in over two years. A miracle indeed!

It last all of 10 seconds when Lucy Pussy clamps her claws on the tail and game is over once more. She looks smug. Smugger than smug. Rita Kitten looks alert and ready to pounce. Eventually she gives up and lies down. She watches and waits. She has the look of Mary Magdalene about her. Has it gone forever? Will I never see the tail again? I think there is a tear.

And so it goes on. I push Lucy Pussy off and game begins again. For another 10 seconds. Repeat last paragraph again. And again.

£61.49. Dear reader, was it worth it?

cats playing

In which Rita kitten becomes ill

Rita 080812Sometimes a pet becomes ill and you don’t really notice. You are just so busy hussling and bustling getting things ready for Holy Week and Easter that you don’t really notice that a little kitten is not behaving quite as she used to. You might put it down to the fact that she was spayed six weeks ago. You might put it down to cats merely behaving oddly because let’s face it, they are a law unto themselves. And the fact that Rita kitten has the look of a consumptive doesn’t really help. She has the most doleful eyes and hang-dog (?) expression that she has never really looked full of beans.

But eventually it did register that we were not bounding about the place with quite as much energy, not demanding strokes and cuddles, and going back to sleep in the ironing basket all day long didn’t quite seem normal for an 8-month old kitten. Perhaps she has been worn down by Lucy Pussy’s cynicism I wondered. And I asked a visitor if they thought she looked normal. “She has the look of a cat with flu,” he said. Time to phone the vet.  The vet suggested I bring her straight in and that was last Thursday. Oh what a lot has happened since then!

First of all the vet noticed a weepy eye which has escaped my attention. Oh neglectful mummy! So that required drops and antibiotics jag and pills to take home. What a lark. She was looking a pathetic wee soul just lying on the steel table so he got out his stethoscope and it was then he found the heart murmur. “Have we noticed this before?” he asked. “No,” said I. “Oh well, it is quite bad.” A bad heart murmur! How could I have overlooked such an illness? And of course, I remembered going to check on her just a few days before and she was lying spreadeagled on the spare room floor panting quite fast. I had put it down to the sun.

“Bring her in tomorrow and we’ll do an ECG and chest x-ray,” says he. “You’ll need to leave her in all day incase we need to sedate her.”  And home I went, feeling guilty that I hadn’t noticed sooner and brought her for treatment. She got lots of attention that night, I can tell you. She dismissed it all in a guilt-inducing way.

Dear Reader, it has been almost a week now and Rita kitten is still int he Vet hospital. She was indeed sedated but an ECG couldn’t be taken. A heart specialist was consulted and we were told we should perhaps take her back in Holy Week to see him.  However, in the meantime blood had revealed that she was terribly anaemic so extra blood had to be sent off to a specialist in blood disorders. What was causing the anaemia? Where was she losing blood? (I have cream carpets and I’m sure I’d have noticed pools of blood around the place.) Was it regenerative anaemia or non-regenerative? (I know, I haven’t a clue either.) More tests were required. But to do those tests she would need to receive a blood transfusion.

Call in the Maine coon cats. It would appear that Maine coon cats are good at giving blood. They are quite placid, quite large and don’t seem to mind.  How charitable of them. So a local breeder was going to bring in her Maine coons so they could be type-matched with Rita kitten. The vet phoned me throughout the weekend to keep me up to date with her condition. “She’s not eating in front of anyone so we’ve had to put a blanket up so she can eat in private.” “She’s taken to sleeping in her litter tray.” Oh the shame of it! I felt as if I hadn’t brought her up properly. Imagine sleeping in your litter tray. How could she?

On Monday she had the blood transfusion and she seemed to perk up after that. In fact she got a bit tetchy we were told, which they said was a good sign. Maine coon blood must be good stuff. On Tuesday she had bone marrow biopsies and we now await the results of that. It is a bit nerve-wracking this waiting lark. Especially in the lead up to Holy Week. For a while over the weekend it was looking as if she might not pull through. Now it looks like it might be some long-term chronic disease which will require much care, attention and money thrown at it. Thank goodness for pet insurance.  (And let us pause to pray that this is all indeed covered by said pet insurance.)

It is quieter without Rita kitten at home. Lucy Pussy is looking decidedly smug and has reverted to being Queen of the Rectory. I am DSCF0426getting morning roll-overs once more and had forgotten how adorable they indeed are. She has reduced the amount she eats, not having to eat the kitten’s food as well as her own. Greedy minx. She has gone back to hiding up the back stairs and racing me to the kitchen (an old game but a favourite). Clearly she is enjoying life without the little one pestering her.

The vet assures me that they will get to the bottom of this but that it is beyond the capabilities of a normal vet. This is speciality stuff. No ordinary disease for my little baby.

I haven’t been in to visit her. Should I? Nor have I sent flowers or fluffy toys. I’m not sure what the protocol is when a pussy cat is in Vet hospital. Is someone holding her paw all through the night or is she lying in a cold little tray in a cage all on her own?

Lucy Pussy cares not a jot.

How to give a cat a pill

1. Pick up cat and cradle it in the crook of your left arm as if holding a baby.

Position right forefinger and thumb on either side of cat’s mouth and gently apply pressure to cheeks while holding pill in right hand.  As cat opens mouth, pop pill into mouth. Allow cat to close mouth and swallow.

2. Retrieve pill from floor and cat from behind sofa.

Cradle cat in left arm and repeat process.

3. Retrieve cat from bedroom, and throw soggy pill away.

4. Take new pill from foil wrap, cradle cat in left arm, holding rear paws tightly with left hand.

Force jaws open and push pill to back of mouth with right forefinger. Hold mouth shut for a count of ten.

5. Retrieve pill from goldfish bowl and cat from top of wardrobe.

Call spouse in from the garden.

6. Kneel on floor with cat wedged firmly between knees, hold front and rear paws.

Ignore low growls emitted by cat. Get spouse to hold head firmly with one hand while forcing wooden ruler into mouth. Drop pill down ruler and rub cat’s throat vigorously.

7. Retrieve cat from curtain rail.

Get another pill from foil wrap. Make note to buy new ruler and repair curtains. Carefully sweep shattered figurines and vases from hearth and set to one side for gluing later.

8. Wrap cat in large towel and get spouse to lie on cat with head just visible from below armpit.

Put pill in end of drinking straw, force mouth open with pencil and blow down drinking straw

9. Check label to make sure pill not harmful to humans and drink one beer to take taste away.

Apply band-aid to spouse’s forearm and remove blood from carpet with cold water and soap.

10. Retrieve cat from neighbour’s shed.

Get another pill. Open another beer. Place cat in cupboard, and close door onto neck, to leave head showing. Force mouth open with dessert spoon. Flick pill down throat with elastic band.

11. Fetch screwdriver from garage and put cupboard door back on hinges. Drink beer. Fetch bottle of scotch. Pour shot, drink.

Apply cold compress to cheek and check records for date of last tetanus shot. Apply whiskey compress to cheek to disinfect. Toss back another shot. Throw tee-shirt away and fetch new one from bedroom.

12. Call fire department to retrieve the #$%^&* cat from the top of the tree across the road. Apologize to neighbour who crashed into fence while swerving to avoid cat.

Take last pill from foil wrap.

13. Using heavy-duty pruning gloves from shed, tie the little *&#%^’s front paws to rear paws with garden twine and bind tightly to leg of dining table. Push pill into mouth followed by large piece of fillet steak. Be rough about it. Hold head vertically and pour two pints of water down throat to wash pill down.

14. Consume remainder of scotch. Get spouse to drive you to the emergency room. Sit quietly while doctor stitches fingers and forearm and removes pill remnants from right eye. Call furniture shop on way home to order new table.

15. Arrange for RSPCA to collect mutant cat from hell and call local pet shop to see if they have any hamsters.

How To Give A Dog A Pill

1. Wrap it in bacon.

2. Toss it in the air.

3. All done!

Rita kitten and the Sacrament of the Present Moment

Rita kitten has joined the rectory household and our lives have changed immeasurably. My life has changed because I have become a mother to a lively 8 week old bundle of tortoise fluff who delights in climbing up my legs at any opportune, and inopportune moments. My nose and eyes have been thoroughly investigated and a trail of blood drops follow me around as the wounds of climbing expeditions and wrestling matches slowly heal to make way for a new batch. Who needs to watch the Olympics when you have a kitten around? We have our own long jump, high jump, earring swinging, running up legs, boxing rats on springs, squeezing through tunnels and under sofas, patting balls and hop, skip and jumping just for fun.

Lucy Pussy’s life has changed because she is not happy with this small creature invading her space. This is rather unfortunate as we had hoped that they would be company for one another. So far there has just been hissing and a low growling and they haven’t yet been allowed together in the same room without the wee one being in her pet carrier. But we are doing what the book says and taking it slowly, introducing them for a few hairy moments each day (at a safe distance).

Son #2’s life has changed because he now is told to take tortoise fluff when he comes in from work to give mummy a rest. All of our computer speakers are now on the floor in amongst a tangle of cables and much has been produced from under bookcases and drawers. (Not always nice things.)

As I watched Rita kitten last night it occurred to me that she was absolutely living in the moment. She will sleep where she drops (on the bookcase, under the table, in the pet carrier, on the back of my neck…) and when she is awake she is completely engrossed in what is currently taking her attention. She will play with a ball for ages and then move on to the scratchy post with dangly pom-pom then investigate each of my five fingers and their bitability before moving on to intense scrutiny of my nostril and then eye-lid. Each moving part is focused on with such attention. Her own back leg can amuse for a good few moments and I can’t wait until she discovers her tail. The bookcase with the glass door and the shiny fire place surround have caused great amusement as she catches her reflection and flies at it with a resounding thud and embarrassed look. But the sideways startled leap into the air with all four paws off the ground amuses me most. (You can’t be depressed with a kitten around.)

We have tried to photograph her but she just doesn’t sit still long enough. I think I need an action camera or something. So I have many shots of an empty space or her bottom. Our lives have certainly changed for the better and I have definitely enjoyed living in the moment with her. (I have even forgiven the pee on my duvet and then feather bed, all parcelled up to go to the cleaner later today.)  I fear I am indeed turning into an old cat lady, or at the very least Mrs Slocombe continually talking about my pussies.

The Life of Christ in Cats

You know how it is? You’re scrolling through images of Christ in Google Images looking for some inspiration for a Vestry Away Day, and you come across this:

Heavens to Betsy, I thought. But you know, the more I looked – the more I liked.

Lucy Pussy turns Franciscan

It all began with the squirrel.  I don’t think Lucy Pussy has seen one before and she was most alarmed this morning when a squirrel appeared in the garden. The birds are one thing and produce much chattering and ducking as they fly in and out of the eaves.  But a squirrel meant a large puffed up tail and much angst.

Meanwhile I was calling “Lucy! Lucy!” from the bathroom because there was a spider in the bath. She didn’t come which is not like her.  “Lucy! Lucy!” I called. Eventually I had to go and carry her into the bath whereupon the spider rolled itself into a small black ball with no legs to be seen. Well clearly there is no sport to be had with a round black ball that doesn’t move. However, as she crept closer for a sniff a bit of web must have lingered and caught her ear so she backed up the bath trying to get away from it. I held her down. Turning on the tap gently made the spider unfurl its legs and scamper away which produced some interest from LP. But frankly not as much as I would have liked. Round one to the spider.

Now Lucy is scattering papers on the study floor and twanging an elastic band. I think she’s trying to make music. Perhaps it is Make me a Channel of your Peace?

In which purpleness is restored

There are some things which must be done before one goes on holiday.

One must find/launder/mend/try on (and discard with disgust)/purchase summery clothes to wear. This can be a disheartening process. And an expensive one if your weight has rocketed since the last time the sun shone. You want something that allows the rays to hit your skin but without exposing fat elbows, bingo wings, blue-veined legs, puffy ankles or a wrinkly decolletage. Not easy, believe me.

One must find the sunglasses which do not gouge out holes on either side of your nose, give you a severe headache behind your ears, fall off whenever you bend down, or are so large they rest on your pudgy cheeks and fill up with sweat thus blinding you within moments of the temperature reaching above 18 degrees.

One must find the suitcase which is exactly the right size for a just-in-case packer. A just-in-case packer? Yes, one who packs everything ‘just in case…’ Well, you never know when you might need a fruit knife, an anorak, a range of pashminas, hair straighteners, 5 pairs of shoes and sandals which allow for varying degrees of swollen feet, etc etc. And you find the perfect size suitcase only to discover after filling it with freshly laundered lingerie that this was the case that the cat peed in and you never quite got rid of the smell no matter how much Febreze and bicarb of soda you sprayed into it.

One must tidy the house incase you are struck down by a dreadful illness or accident whilst away and some poor soul has to come into your house to get your jim-jams. Or in case there is a storm and the roof falls in and the congregation have to come and tidy up the debris before your return. (They’re good, like that.) This involves a deep spring clean, emptying of fridge and filing all that has been lying in wait for at least 12 months.

One must remember to change the message on the answering machine, not too soon and not too late that the taxi is tooting at the door. One knows that one can do it remotely but whoever remembers the #* instructions when you’re in the airport lounge sipping your third Margarita? Not me, that’s for sure.

Once upon a time, one must select books to take too. Thankfully, with the advent of the Kindle this is no longer a problem. But then again there is the charger to remember… oh, which reminds me – pack the phone charger too. Of course there is a period of time on the aeroplane when one must not use a Kindle so should one take a small book or crossword to while away those tense moments?

One must also see to one’s hair. This means getting rid of some and tittifying the other. In my case this meant restoring the grey and strange pink/lilac colour to its proper purpleness. Now, as yet, I had not found a hairdresser in Falkirk which stocks the best purple in the world (Elumen by Goldwell, if you’re interested) but after a bit of googling I found that there was indeed one. This also meant trusting a new hairdresser to cut one’s crowing glory which is no mean feat. (Those with curly hair will be nodding at this point, only too well that the instructions to ‘not cut too much off my fringe because it will spring up’ seems to translate into ‘let’s turn her into something from the medieval period when fringes were worn somewhere near the hairline’). However, Amber at Kharma did a jolly good job and I quite enjoyed listening to rap music at full volume whilst reading Heat magazine. Really, I did. I think the side parting and swept over one eye look was not really for me but she was so enthusiastic I didn’t want to burst her bubble. After all, these things can always be fixed with a pair of nail scissors, can’t they? (Note to self: pack nail scissors.)

There are a host of other things one must remember which I seem to have forgotten for now. Oh the cat! How could I forget the cat? She must be packed up with all her worldly goods to the dark recesses of Son’s flat in Embra. But which blanket to pack for her? The one she weaves on my bed, the hairy tartan rug on the back of the sofa, or the fake sheepskin one she has studiously ignored since I put it in the washing machine, preferring the runner at the foot of the spare bed anyway?

And in the meantime there are sermons to write, notices to dream up for 2 week’s worth of pew sheets, bills to pay, letters to post, and a couple of stone to lose. Ho hum.

If any burglars should happen to be reading this please note that (a) there is nothing worth pinching;  (b) the alarm and cameras will get you; and (c) other burly son may pop in to stay!

Lucy Pussy and Colin the Crow

Due to popular demand, here is the latest installment of Lucy Pussy’s life in the Rectory…

Lucy Pussy has adapted reasonably well to becoming a ‘rectory cat’ as opposed to a ‘roaming around seeking whom she may devour cat’.  Because of the busy main road she has been imprisoned in the rectory but has managed to find plenty exercise racing down the main staircase, doing a lap along the bottom corridor and then racing up the back stairs. It keeps her fit and keeps me on my toes when bringing a cup of coffee downstairs to my study. We have had a few accidents. The back windows in the rectory look out onto trees and Bell’s Meadow so there is lots of wildlife for her to observe and ‘chatter’ to, including bats which were new to her. She is not too keen on them because they fly a bit too fast for her and she ducks every time they go past. Then she feels foolish and has to casually clean herself as if she didn’t just do that.

Last week, as I sat and ate my lunch at the dining table and read the Church Times, she casually sauntered past me with something black in her mouth. Something black? What on earth could it be? As all the windows were closed (it being summer in Scotland and freezing cold and wet) and as she doesn’t get outside, what could it be? She has been good at keeping the mouse population in check but this was something much bigger and blacker. A rat perhaps?

So I tentatively followed her out and downstairs where she kindly deposited large black object at my study door. So kind. As I drew nearer I saw that it was a crow. Yes, a crow! A large black pointy beaked crow. Lying, to all intents and purposes ‘dead’, at my study door. Where the heck did she find a crow? Now I know my housework is perhaps not quite up to the standard of Kim and Aggie, but I felt sure that I would have noticed a crow lurking around under the bed.

As she lay panting beside said crow, looking I might say very pleased with herself, it made a slight move whereupon she pounced upon it and brought it upstairs towards me. The crow cawed helplessly and then was silent. (I may add as the crow cawed, I screamed. Like a girl.)  And under my bed she went where upon there was some scuffling, some cawing and some mewing. Feathers floated out. I ran and phoned my sister. In Edinburgh. “A crow?” she said. “Where the heck did she get a crow?” Indeed. My point exactly. “Shut all the doors,” she advised, which was exactly why I phoned my sister as she is much more sensible in such crises. I shut the doors, except for the bedroom and in due time Lucy Pussy brought the crow out into the corridor leading to my bedroom.

Now, by this point I am having flashbacks of the ‘pigeon episode’. Readers may remember the first trophy Lucy Pussy brought home for mummy just minutes before the congregation were due to arrive for the garden party (to be held indoors because it was pouring rain) and spread feathers, blood and pigeon poo all over my nice white tablecloth.  (Not to mention the dust from the venetian blinds which had not been cleaned in some time – I told you I wasn’t exactly up to speed on the old housework.) But as far as I could see from my vantage point on the stairs, the crow looked as dead and can be lying on its back with feet in the air, and LP lay like a proud puss beside it. Ah but it was not indeed dead but playing possum, for after several minutes of pretending it ruffled a feather as if to move whereupon LP pounced once more and carried it off down the back stairs.

At this point I locked myself in my study and phoned Tom the ex-Treasurer for he has a cat and goes hillwalking. My reckoning being that he was probably used to such treasures being brought home and loves the outdoors and would know how to catch a crow. Bless him, for he did indeed arrive within minutes while I stayed locked in the study listening to the cawing and mewing cacophany outside. But then we couldn’t find either of them until a wee mew alerted me to LP sitting on granny’s old bureau in the window looking forlornly over the back of it. Colin the Crow has obviously made a bid for freedom and flown at the window whereupon he fell down the back of the bureau and got stuck. LP couldn’t reach him either but she wasn’t letting him out of her sight.

Tom, my superhero, casually rescued Colin and took him outside, much to Lucy Pussy’s disgust. And guess what? This story does have a happy ending for Colin the Crow flew off with no injuries apart from a wounded pride I would guess.

Of course, you are now wondering how Colin entered the rectory in the first place? Well I certainly was. Our only guess is that he fell down the chimney in the flat which is boarded up but has a small hole cut for ventilation and managed to sqeeze through it. For that is where Lucy Pussy spends most of her days now. Sitting and watching and waiting…