I’ve always been a cat person. I got my first kitten as child. I named him Cinnamon. He became a big, fat ginger who was so mellow that he seemed perpetually stoned. I dressed him up in my doll clothes and bonnet, and wheeled him around in my baby carriage.
I have photographic proof of this and I’ve never had a cat since who would put up with such abuse.
When I was in college, I got a Siamese kitten that I named Tolstoy, so I could find an excuse to brag that I’d just finished reading “War and Peace.” (I was in my Russian literature phase.) Tolstoy had the charming habit of jumping onto the top of the refrigerator, hiding until I came into the kitchen, and then leaping onto my back, digging in with his sharp claws. He enjoyed hearing me scream.
When I moved to Southern California in 1981, my friend persuaded me to adopt a black kitten that I named Bob Marley the Wailer. And he did indeed wail constantly about everything. I never had a cat who had such a continuous commentary on everything that happened in our household.
I got him at the start of a four-year drought, and I’ll never forget the day it finally started raining again. Bob was so infuriated at the icky wet stuff falling from the sky, he yowled at me nonstop to do something about it. I tried explaining that even I couldn’t control the weather, but he wasn’t interested in my phony excuses.
In retaliation, he waited until a friend was about to come for a visit from Utah, and he jumped in the open window with a rat in his mouth the size of a grizzly bear. I screamed and grabbed the broom, opening the front door and intending to shoo the rat and the cat combo outside. Instead, all I did was cause Bob to drop the rat, which promptly ran into the living room and disappeared.
I moved furniture around the living room, trying unsuccessfully to find the rodent. While I tried to sleep that night, I could hear Bob chasing it in the living room, and listening to what sounded like beastly death squeals. In the morning, I found blood on the floor, but, despite heroic efforts, I could not find the creature.
My friend arrived for a visit, and I cringed when she sat on my couch, because I imagined a wounded rodent jumping out from underneath it and attacking her. But no rat. We drove down to Baja for a few days, and I figured the rat must have died, and I’d open my door when we got back to the delightful odor of morte d’rat in my house.
But, no. No raton. No aroma. I never saw the rat again. Not even when I moved a few years later. Eventually, Bob passed away, and I still miss him.
Nowadays, I have a dog, because my daughter Curly Girl is a dog-maniac.
When she was small, my friend threatened to charge me with child cruelty if I didn’t get her one, ignoring the fact that dogs are needy and require a ton of work.
So, I gave in and Buddy the Wonder Dog came into our lives, until he went to the big doghouse in the sky. Then, we got our current generic white dog, Lil Wayne.
Then, Curly Girl moved out, got married and had two babies in a row. So, guess who now has the dog? Yup. The cat person.
I am fond of Lil Wayne, who happens to be an excellent companion. But I still wanted another cat. For years, I didn’t dare get one, because I have that aggravating malady called cancer, and I was afraid I wouldn’t live long enough to take care of a cat.
But I’ve outsmarted the cancer for now, so I decided to become a cat owner again. Nowadays, I have Boris, a Russian Blue who was found abandoned in a laundry room. He’s beautiful, affectionate and loves to cuddle. He never jumps on my back. OK, well, only once. Twice.
Since I got Boris, my life has changed. I no longer have these things:
Privacy in the bathroom. Boris feels the need to be with me in my most private moments. The ability to sleep in. Boris wakes up hungry before dawn, jumps on me and starts to purr, alerting me that it’s time to get up and feed him. House plants. Cats seem to have the irresistible need to dig in them, making a mess, and sometimes even eat them. There’s no hiding a house plant from a cat. They can smell it. The chance to type uninterrupted. Boris clearly has an unresolved desire to become a writer, because he jumps on my keyboard whenever he sees me attempting to write. Like now. Boredom. The small beast can keep me entertained whenever he’s awake.So, there. You now know so much more than you ever wanted about my history with felines. Meow.
Want to contact me? Hit me up at [email protected] or join my Facebook page. We have fun on there. facebook.com/FrumpyMiddleagedMom
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