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My God, Andy. Same thing as last year in Mr. Blodgett's barn
Tonight I had to take a dead moth off Autolycus' nose.
As far as I can tell, he headbutted it to death and it stuck there. He was licking repeatedly at his nose, not yet unhappily, but definitely failing to dislodge the interference. I lifted him onto my lap, coaxed him to turn his face toward me, scruffed him slightly with one hand and picked off the ex-insect with the other. The separated wings of the moth fluttered toward the floor and Autolycus dove after them; I heard the happy porcupine noises of a growing cat with a treat. Then I heard a lot of sneezing.
He left the room with an air of great self-satisfaction. So now I have a cat that snorts moths.
(My laptop's keyboard has unjammed. I have to assume it's a temporary respite, but I'm using it to make another quick backup—not touching the keyboard itself or the trackpad, just in case. The wireless setup works just fine now that my computer no longer thinks that the "W," "V," and command keys are being held down constantly. I am also listening to my iTunes, which I have missed. Come on, Bertie Owen. You are the Fisher King of laptops. Being healed after long suffering is your thing.)
Watching the pilot episode of Twin Peaks (1990—1991) after falling in love with Gravity Falls (2012—) and Hannibal (2013—) is a fascinatingly archaeological experience. Based on the first ninety-three minutes, fortunately, I really like Twin Peaks.
As far as I can tell, he headbutted it to death and it stuck there. He was licking repeatedly at his nose, not yet unhappily, but definitely failing to dislodge the interference. I lifted him onto my lap, coaxed him to turn his face toward me, scruffed him slightly with one hand and picked off the ex-insect with the other. The separated wings of the moth fluttered toward the floor and Autolycus dove after them; I heard the happy porcupine noises of a growing cat with a treat. Then I heard a lot of sneezing.
He left the room with an air of great self-satisfaction. So now I have a cat that snorts moths.
(My laptop's keyboard has unjammed. I have to assume it's a temporary respite, but I'm using it to make another quick backup—not touching the keyboard itself or the trackpad, just in case. The wireless setup works just fine now that my computer no longer thinks that the "W," "V," and command keys are being held down constantly. I am also listening to my iTunes, which I have missed. Come on, Bertie Owen. You are the Fisher King of laptops. Being healed after long suffering is your thing.)
Watching the pilot episode of Twin Peaks (1990—1991) after falling in love with Gravity Falls (2012—) and Hannibal (2013—) is a fascinatingly archaeological experience. Based on the first ninety-three minutes, fortunately, I really like Twin Peaks.
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(Also, I have a hard time telling people's faces apart. There are like a dozen teenage boys on this show and they all look alike to me unless I really make an effort, so I'm constantly going, "Is that the jackass who was selling drugs? No wait, that kid had floppy nineties hair and this one has buzzed hair. This is the one from the awkward makeout scene." This adds pleasantly to the sense of mystery and confusion for me, rather than detracting from it.)