Don't give your cat caffeine, and Advent Music

I spent this afternoon lazily.  I watched Jane Austen movies instead of studying, did some embroidery, and had tea and biscuits.

Conrad had tea, too.

He wasn't supposed to, really.  But he likes to sit on the end table in the living room, which is where my tea was, and I guess he was thirsty.  Anyway, he'd had a good drink before I caught him at it, and then I figured, well, I'm not going to drink any more of that mug now, he might as well have his fill.  And thought nothing more of it.

Approximately an hour later, he went suddenly berserk.  He's a high-energy cat anyway, but this was ridiculous.  He was tearing about, ricocheting off furniture, bouncing off the walls (literally!)  He also spooked at small noises and appeared completely convinced that the furtherance of his life depended on how thoroughly he killed his toy mouse.  He's never been so crazy.

The effects lasted about an hour, after which he appeared to come down off his caffeine high and fell asleep sprawled on his back on the sofa with his paws in the air.  When I carried him upstairs for bed he tottered about for a moment, and is now sleeping soundly on the ironing board.  I'm not sure I could wake him if I tried.

The moral of this story is: don't give your cats caffeine!  I suppose I should be grateful it was tea he drank.  If he'd had coffee he might have exploded!

~~~~

This is supposed to be an Advent music post, but I had to share the cat story too -- sorry!  This week, I have an ancient verse in a fairly modern setting - "I sing of a maiden" set by Patrick Hadley.  The words date back to the 1400s or earlier, and I think they're lovely.

I pasted this in from Wikipedia - the original Middle-English text, with a modern "translation" next to it.

I syng of a mayden þat is makeles, kyng of alle kynges to here sone che ches.	I sing of a maiden That is matchless, King of all kings For her son she chose.
He came also stylle þer his moder was as dew in aprylle, þat fallyt on þe gras.	He came as still Where his mother was As dew in April That falls on the grass.
He cam also stylle to his moderes bowr as dew in aprille, þat fallyt on þe flour.	He came as still To his mother's bower As dew in April That falls on the flower.
He cam also stylle þer his moder lay as dew in Aprille, þat fallyt on þe spray.;	He came as still Where his mother lay As dew in April That falls on the spray.
Moder & mayden was neuer non but che – wel may swych a lady Godes moder be.	Mother and maiden There was never, ever one but she; Well may such a lady God's mother be.