Our Home, the Cuckoo's Nest

I know I've mentioned this before, but I am becoming increasingly convinced that Doug and I are attendants in a looney bin. A looney bin with one patient. The patient is not a cat and his name beings with an H. I bet you can't guess who it is!

Maybe he's not clinically insane. Maybe he's got OCD. Maybe he's doing an impression of Dustin Hoffman with autism. Maybe he's gotta watch Whoppner. Whoppner's on at 7. Gotta watch Whoppner. Gotta watch Whoppner. Gotta watch Whoppner.

Last week, he had to walk over to Doug and touch the cracker he was eating to Doug's lunch plate before he'd take a bite. He'd go play, then come over, tap the cracker against the plate, take a bite, then walk away. A few minutes later he'd do the same thing.

O-kay.

The other day, he was inexplicably compelled to twirl in a little circle at the edge of the rug each time he walked across the room.

Yesterday, he spent 15 minutes in the corner of his room putting a box on top of the hassock. Climbing on the hassock and sitting next to the box. Pushing the box back on the floor. Getting down. Putting the box back on top of the hassock. Climbing on the hassock. Etc. Over and over and over. He was completely absorbed. Doug and I could have gone for a walk around the block and he wouldn't have noticed. Instead, we just sat there staring at him with our eyebrows raised, wondering, "What the HELL IS HE DOING?" And still it continued. Up went the box, up went the kid. Down went the box. Down went the kid. Again and again.

Finally, I had to drag him away to get him ready for bed. It was 7 o'clock.

Had to watch Whoppner.