They say a spider plant is hard to kill. I'm not so sure. My kitten almost dispatched mine in just a few seconds yesterday.
He's not quite big enough to get onto the kitchen counters on his own, but he wants to, so badly. He has turned into an on-top-of-things cat, who won't be held if he can get onto a shoulder, who gazes down at me at my desk from on top of the bookcase. He can't get to the top of the food chain in this household, but he's not about to stand for another organism living in a higher spot, even if all it eats is sunlight. Perhaps especially then. Cats are jealous of their sunspots.
The kitchen counters are a mystery, an Emerald City that he gazes toward with longing. Especially the cabinet top near the stove, where the spider plant resides. He already has heart, courage, and a brain. He's examining every route, testing his brute jumping strength from the floor, testing his balance as he seeks a stable platform above the floor and closer to the counter.
He's had some success with trips on the monkey elevator. He lulls me into glassy-eyed adoration and travels around on my shoulder for a bit. When I go into the kitchen to pour another cup of tea, he looks frankly at the plant and makes his move. I let him examine the plant, but within seconds he starts biting, and I scoop him up. Yesterday, knowing that he didn't have much time, he started digging immediately, exposing about three-fourths of the plant's roots before I could whisk him away.
The kitten's less lethal interests deprive him of the focus that might have had him finishing off that plant by now, although he's clearly looking forward to it. I've identified a place on the wall where a plant hanger has resided in the past, and I'll use the little time I have left wisely. I should be able to find a nice hanger tomorrow.
August 8, 2002