After a tense and miow-filled night, I sought to discover some method of calming our anxious house-guest.
Earlier today, if you visited his room, he would be assessing escape potential and looking wary. I’ve been playing romantic classical music at him for a few hours now and he’s currently in a state of placid acceptance. It is now possible to go in and out of the room without causing more than a happy purr.
Whether or not this is due to the large amounts of Rachmaninoff I’ve been pouring into his lug-holes, I shall probably never know, as he could just be calming down of his own accord. Mogret is also calmed by music, although we discovered that her taste is a little unusual. She finds Mr Scruff particularly soothing (as we spotted while redecorating the lounge) and seems to have a penchant for trance and techno. Personally I think that’s just her attempt to ingratiate herself to the maker of such music (my husband). She’s smart enough to know how people work.
On the subject of manipulating foolish humans, she executed the sneakiest move yet this morning: she moved into Random House, the kennel we had built for our current house-guest to give him some shelter if he persisted in being afraid of Indoors. She sat in there looking reproachfully back at the house, as if to say “he’s in my house, I suppose I’ll have to live here now”. Evil, evil cat. She knows just how to make me feel guilty.