August 6, 2005

• The Furry Life

  My recent blog about my allergies drew a comment from my sister-in-law
  about her allergies.  All the best people have them.  The SIL
  says her doc told her to get rid of the cats.   “Not bloody
  likely,” is a loose paraphrase of her response.

  The docs have been warning me to steer clear of dogs and cats since my
  infancy.  My mother took it seriously and wouldn’t let me have a
  pet until I was… oh, about eight years old.  By then, I’d worn
  down her resistance.  She was an Aries, fire sign, instinctively
  dominant and quick to anger, but I’m an earth sign, lots of
  stick-to-itiveness, and a Virgo with an infinite supply of
  well-reasoned arguments for anything.  Mama never stood a chance.

  On
  one of my recent visits to my not-doctor (my provider at the local
  clinic is a physician’s assistant — the clinic is loosely overseen by
  an MD in Anchorage and as far as I know there isn’t a doctor in
  practice for miles and miles around here)–”recent visit” in geological
  time and in terms of my infrequent visits to the clinic….  I’m
  supposed to get annual checkups and reassessment for renewing my asthma
  prescriptions, but by using my meds conservatively (otherwise known as
  skipping doses) I manage to stretch it to about every year-and-a-half
  or more.  Anyhow, one of the last few times I saw Sarah (the PA),
  she told me to “keep the cats off the bed.”

  Yeah, right, I’ll do that.  I didn’t bother explaining that my
  “bedroom” is the big open front room of the house that is living,
  dining and kitchen combined and I can’t just shut a door and keep the
  cats out.  Perhaps she has never had a cat, and thinks you can
  tell them to stay off the bed and they won’t sneak back on it when your
  back is turned.

  She
  didn’t mention the dog.  That’s good, because the dog owns the
  bed.  The cats own the house, which includes the bed.  Many
  times, every mammal in the house is gathered on my bed.  When
  we’re watching a video, Doug even sprawls across the bed. 
  Whenever Doug and I, or Greyfox and I, are within a meter or so of each
  other, Koji wants to be between us.  If a cat wants to nap on the
  bed, it doesn’t care how many other mammals are there as long as that
  cat’s favorite pillow is vacant. 

  Koji only uses a pillow when I’m sleeping late.  He moves up from
  his spot at the foot of the bed and lays his head on my pillow and
  breathes in my face until I wake up.  Opening one’s eyes and
  gazing into the nostrils of that big black leather snoot can make an
  early riser out of anyone.

  Koji was a cute pup.  “Cute” is in a puppy’s job
  description.  At first, he’d have to run and jump into the chair
  at the foot of my bed and from there onto the bed.  When he got a
  little bigger, he could climb directly onto the bed.  Conditioned
  by my mother and several ex-husbands to the axiom that dogs must stay
  off the furniture, I’d always order him back onto the floor. 

  Sometimes
  as I was drifting off to sleep, I’d feel the little shake of the bed
  that signaled Koji’s presence.  I’d say, “down”, and another
  little shake of the bed would signal Koji’s compliance.  One
  night, I was a little farther into sleep than usual when Koji decided
  to join me on the bed, and I misinterpreted the slight shake of Koji
  lying down on the bed for his jumping off the bed.  After that, he
  knew that if he waited until I was asleep, he could get on the bed and
  stay there until I awoke.  It didn’t take long for me to realize
  that, and to notice that he was a good foot warmer as well. 
  Sneakiness is no longer necessary.  Mama and the husbands are all
  gone now.  The cats might prefer not sharing the bed with the dog,
  but that uncouth creature is both big and persistent.

  The
  cats go wherever they want to go in here.  If it involves climbing
  the antique Navajo rug hanging on my wall, or swinging from a hanging
  plant, a stun dart from the blowgun will dissuade them.  Beyond
  kittenhood, they’ve all got better manners than that, but nothing has
  ever dissuaded them from using me as furniture when I’m sound
  asleep.  It’s tolerable, as far as I’m concerned.  I can ever
  accept a cat on my lap when I’m awake.  Okay, let’s get real…
  I’ll stay put longer than I’d do other wise, if there’s a cat on my
  lap, rather than inconvenience the cat.  I might not go as far as
  the legendary Emperor who cut off the silk-and-gold brocade sleeve of
  his robe rather than wake the cat who was sleeping on it, but I’ll go
  out of my way to humor a cat.  Most days, I feel the cats are
  worth the trouble.

  I
  was questioning that judgement the other day.  I sleepily plopped
  down on the couch in my silk pajamas with my morning’s first cup of
  coffee.  When my silken-clad bottom felt a definite cool, wet
  squishiness, I popped back up.  It was a hairball that one of the
  cats had coughed up.  I’m pretty sure that the particular culprit
  there was “Muffin” (above, formerly known to Mark, the man who left
  them here with us, as Prissy Pretticat).  The hairball was too
  large to have been produced by either of the kittens, Nemo or Hilary,
  and old Granny Mousebreath (left, whom Mark had called Sassy and we
  briefly called Sassafrass the Dancing Cat, until Greyfox began calling
  the two calicos Muffin and Meatloaf interchangeably because for a while
  he couldn’t distinguish between them.  After he sobered up, he
  could tell the difference.), Muffin’s mother, prefers leaving hers in
  the dark hallway so they can squish up between my bare toes on my way
  to the bathroom in the wee smalls.

  • 4:06 pm
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