I’m sprung, girls.  There are no two ways about it.  I am in love, and that means I am in trouble.  And this time, it’s trouble squared.

Yarrow is gorgeous, but evil. 

And Speedwell is gorgeous (this picture does not do him justice), but evil.

These two are hell on paws.  Fur bags full of trouble.  You can see it coming on when Yarrow becomes distracted and Speedwell starts looking like Elvis. 

Cats who can do impressions of Elvis, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams Sr., or Liza Minnelli grow up to be cats who steal cars.  Don’t even get me started on the dangers of cats who can do a good Shane McGowan.  Just, er, call the vet now if you have one of those, and hide the children. 

These guys go from pretending to rest to attacking their house-mates:

And just like all the worst Kitty-gangs, they will never dime each other out.  Even as Speedwell was trying to eat him alive, Zen Master Yarrow was all "There’s nothing to see here, Lady.  Move along. Nothing to see."

Shortly after the incident above, there was some wanton destruction.  Yarrow has a taste for yarn.  Scott tried to laugh it off when Yarrow was attacking a sock as I was knitting on it.  But I knew trouble was brewing.  This is a wool house, after all. 

Well, Saturday Lisa and I went to spend a gift certificate to Aylin’s  Woolgatherer my old employer gave me.  We shopped for yarn, we came back to the house.  Lisa swore up and down the cats were sweet, innocent little guys and that I was paranoid.  She must be on the take.  We met up with the fellahs and went out for dinner.  When we got home, I found this:

That’s not so bad, you’re thinking, right?  Wrong.  This yarn was in a bag.  The bag is no more–shredded beyond recognition.  The red Megaboots Stretch skein?  It’s crunchy, there’s so much kitten spit on it.  The mussed-up Lorna’s too.  My friends, this was just a warning.  This is the wool-eating kitten’s equivalent of a horse-head in my bed.  They’re telling me to stay in line.  They’re going to eat my stash if I don’t handle things carefully. 

I can hear them plotting now. 

But the bad part is I’m making excuses for them.  I keep trying to convince Scott to let them sleep with us at night, even though they spend the night alternating between trying to eat each other and trying to crawl inside my nose.  I had both cats sleeping on my head for most of Friday night, becoming acquainted with my sinuses and tonsils. 

But really it’s ok, because they apologized.  Yarrow purred a lot, and Speedwell hugged me and apologized to the yarn.  That scratch on my thumb is nothing.  It was an accident.  You don’t know them like I do  . . .

And then yesterday, while I was trying to document a make-under I’m giving a would-be great skirt that was attacked by a Bedazzler in some foreign land, Yarrow offered to help.

Help the skirt into a coffin, that is.  They eat linen too.  Send help.  There are new socks that need protection.

No, wait, I was over-reacting before.  They don’t mean to be mean to the wool.  On the linen.  They were just stressed out.  It won’t happen again.  They love me.  Yeah.  They love me.

Help.

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