2019-12-27 - The Reasons Why One Does Not Simply Take Yarn Away From A Cat

It was cumbersome to move in the last couple of days, but it was testament to Alexander's surprisingly advanced ability to treat wounds (and the power of his worried and constant fussing) that her foot was feeling better. There was only so much he could do, however, for a severe bout of tinnitus - something she might have to have seen to, professionally; the persistent ringing in her ears made it absolutely difficult to concentrate on much of anything, relying on some extra-strength Excedrin to obliterate the headaches that produced. The temptation to use one of the remaining packets of the Chicken Soup From the Veil stuffed in her go-bag was absolutely overwhelming, but she refrained herself, at least for now, from succumbing. She tempted fate enought his week.

The sound of a very hot shower somehow made it through the persistent ringing; the last Dream had left the both of them suffering from an inexplicable and persistent cold that left their teeth chattering and their limbs heavy, but exposure was no joke - she knew that well enough from her years of field work. The strains of central heating running active in the house couldn't help but instill a sense of guilt within her, however, aware enough of how high power bills can get in the crush of a brutal winter. Alexander would always do what was necessary, especially in the state she was in, but she couldn't help but feel like a burden. She had been this close to suggesting they stayed in the houseboat for a while so she could saddle the costs, but his pride, too, could be a prickly thing.

So here she was, hobbled from her usual range of mobility, shivering and mostly deaf, attempting to walk (limp) out of the bedroom with something resembling dignity so she could make herself yet another cup of hot coffee and ward off the chill.

"Miaow?"

Isabella turned her eyes towards Blue Bell on the couch. "Your human's fine, princess, he's in the shower. I'm just--"

She froze, catching sight of the bundle of terribly ratty blue and black, hideous attempt at a homemade scarf dangling from the pretty rag doll cat's jaws. Eyes widened when the memory as to where it had ended up caught up to her:

She had spent the earlier part of the day hobbling to every acquaintance's house or business to deliver small packages, electing to get her deliveries out of the way before anything else happened. Now she's on the couch, attempting to...

...knit...?

She had repeatedly stabbed herself with her knitting needles; her bandages were gone and replaced, instead, by festive band-aids around her fingers. She was wearing the Christmas sweater August has seen on her during the parade, though sans her snowflake earrings and her reindeer antlers. What was on her lap was a length of a blue and black misshapen scarf, because she was a beginner at this and oh god why was she putting herself through this. Why did she even think this was a good idea, making a present instead of buying it?! She was literally on the verge of giving up, but she had invested so many hours on this that she literally couldn't stop. Leaving it unfinished would drive her crazy.

When someone announced himself at the door, there's a bit of flailing panic before she shoved all of the yarn and needles under a dilapidated cushion.

...and promptly forgot about it, until the cat unearthed it from the polyester-and-foam abyss into which she consigned it.

"...oh, God," she said, very, very quietly. Blue Bell's tail twitched mischievously on the couch, as if sensing the house guest's mortification. Whatever happened, he could never know, could never see it, and there was only so much failure she could withstand this month!

"Princess," she began, moving achingly slowly towards the couch. "That doesn't belong to you. Give it back, okay?"

Blue Bell's beautiful blue eyes lidded faintly at her approach, immediately sensing a game. Gazes locked from across the way, and somehow she knew that the cat wouldn't relinquish her newfound toy without a fight. After all, it was soft, and most importantly, it was made out of yarn.

She groaned. "Don't make me do this, Blue. Just give it to me." She reached out slowly. She nearly touched the end of an awful black tassle, before suddenly surging forward in an attempt to sweep the cat up in her arms.

The rag doll took off like a snow-white shot, and an incomprehensible cry escaped her lips as her forward lunge had her toppling gracelessly over the arm rest of the couch and down into the floor. Luigi shrieked and flapped as far away from the growing chaos as possible.

"Blue Bell!" Isabella cried, struggling to get on her feet, stubbing her toes hard against the coffee table and inspiring a blistering stream of invectives, because anyone who has ever rammed their bare foot against a piece of furniture knows how much it hurts like the worst thing ever, comparable to stepping on a piece of Lego. "Blue Bell, no!" She spun in a panic, watching the cat leap towards the kitchen. She practically tripped over her own feet, again, in her haste to follow.

Christ, Isabella, she's not a dog. When in the history of the world did cats ever listen to a human? We used to worship them as gods in Ancient Egypt, for crying out loud!

The cat leapt on the counter and ran, her downy tail swinging in delight as she continued to chase, the scarf hanging from her mouth. There was a bit of a shriek when it knocked one of the coffee mugs off of it, diving onto her front in an effort to save it and snatching it from the jaws of gravity-induced death. She breathed a sigh of relief, only for another cup to fall, because there were two of them now, even if Isolde wasn't around, smashing into pieces on the floor just a foot away from her. She stared at it incredulously.

"Blue Bell, gimme it!" she hollered, utterly artless, pushing herself up, before she's forced to dive again as more breakable things fell off the counter in the rag doll's traipse across it, hands snatching at things as they fell; the jar of sugar, another glass, the plate they used to eat her cookies the day before Christmas eve. She twisted like a pretzel in an effort to save them all and somehow managed to succeed despite her state - so far, the coffee mug was the only casualty. From the floor, she watched as the edge of the scarf toyed and bounced on the edge, at least telling her where the cat was despite not having a clear view of her from her angle. As if taunting her. Mocking her.

Oh god, it's hideous, why did I even try to make him anything this year?! Pushing herself up with an arm, she attempted to reach out and grab the end.

As graceful as a leaping gazelle, Blue Bell flew past her hand, and darted back into the living room. Another stream of curses left her as she followed, hobbling as fast as she could. The chase nearly knocked the cheap, plastic Christmas tree on the side when the cat darted underneath its lowest boughs, and she narrowly saved it from spilling the ornaments all over the floor, and a desperate drive had her landing hard on the carpet, finding a dried spot and feeling fragments cling to her cheek. She scraped it off with her fingers, and despite all instincts that told her not to do it, she sniffed.

"...why the hell does the carpet smell like pizza???!!" she exclaimed through the growing red film of frustration.

If she was willing to use her gifts today, if she was in any way fully, physical capable at the moment, this ill-advised enterprise would be easier, but memories of the Dream and all of her present aches and pains were enough to sway her away from that direction. She stumbled upwards again, caught the cat darting into the office.

"Blue Bell, get back here!"

The hideous attempt at a scarf continued to swish at the cat's wake. The rag doll's light steps found Alexander's desk, and another lunge had her leaping away from Isabella's attempts to seize her, paws dancing on the keyboard and landing on the mouse, forcing the computer to click on some strange, free e-magazine subscriptions before springboarding off into the air and the frantic archaeologist run-limping after her. Chances were that she would most probably, eventually, discover the existence of Girls And Corpses Monthly later, possibly through a perplexed Alexander who wouldn't have any idea why it was being sent to him, but right now the instance flew well past her radar as she tunnel visioned on cornering the damned cat and retrieving her shame.

Finally, victory was nigh when she cornered her by where the investigator's indoor garden was kept, her shadow slanting across the hunching cat.

"Alright," Isabella panted, bracing her hands on her knees in an effort to catch her breath. "It's over, princess. Paw it over!"

She took a step forward. The cat shrank back against the corner with her wide, blue eyes.

"Oh, no. No. That face might work on Alexander, but it won't work on--"

From somewhere over her shoulder, the bathroom door swung open, steam billowing out. It was enough of a distraction, the noise registering loudly despite her damaged ears. The archaeologist spun around, eyes widening again.

"Oh, shi--!"

Blue Bell took her chance at salvation. She darted past Isabella, jumping on the table and skittering across it, dragging the scarf. Sensing her imminent rescue from her momentary playmate, her paws hit the edge....

...and went sailing for Alexander's face as he stepped out of the bathroom, her terrible collection of blue-and-black yarn waving victoriously.