Unfortunately, they are also great favorites of Truffle-the-Cat. They are her playground: Jungle gym, snack canteen, teeter-totter and chinning bar.
They are toast.
I commissioned Flip to carry them to the backyard so I could assess the damage and hose them down as they are too tall for the shower. Imagine my surprise that my formerly healthy, robust, towering and abundant palms, when not inspected against a background of tall, leafy fig trees, turned out to be mere shadows of their former selves with sparse, bent, dangling fronds, chewed at the ends, still sloppy wet with cat spit.
Heartbreaking.
I am good with plants, but I am not Florence Nightingale.
Truffle avoids philodendrons, which would gladly poison her, and is smart enough not to mess with cacti. She has no interest in ferns, taro, or lucky bamboo, nor does she deal in pachera. She has never given my two-foot Giant Redwood a second glance. It will attain its full height in centuries to come unmolested.
She likes palms.
She feasts on them while I am sleeping and they are helpless. She wreaks havoc when I am away from home, even when I am out purchasing cat food.
Does that seem fair to you?
By such nefarious behavior, she demonstrates that she knows the nature and quality of her act, and that it is wrong.
She does not care for toys. Catnip makes her yawn. She is quite the little hair-stomping hobbyist, but I have to be horizontal for that to work out. Sometimes I am vertical.
She turns to plants.
We have no mice for her to chase. Mighty hunter that I am, I bring down the cans and even open them with my innovative thumbs. If not for that, she would probably slit my throat with her innovative claws.
We seem to be at a standoff.
Palms vs Truffle.
Truffle vs palms.
Guitar strings used to be made of cat gut. I wonder if Flip needs any new strings.
She'd better not push her luck.
