Me: Hello!
Him: What are you doing?
Me: I'm sitting here in my pajamas, and I'm writing.
Him: Okay. Good. I just called because, you know, you're a Virgo.
Me: And?
Him: And you're obsessive about getting back to me when I e-mail. And I hadn't heard from you in days, so I was starting to worry you were dead in your apartment, and that the cat was picking at your carcass.
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cats. Show all posts
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
Maybe She's Got a Touch of the OCD
Let me tell you a little something about my cat.
Abbey has a lot of interesting and funny habits. For instance, she has a very distinct face she makes whenever she smells something she does not like. She makes this face when there's some gross foreign scent on the carpet, when there's orange or orange peel or orange-scented dust spray around, and when she gives herself bath in the ass area. The face is one of true revulsion. It is a face that says, Oh just what the hell is THAT? She wrinkles up her nose, separates her jaw so that her teeth show, and stares off into the distance for a minute, hoping that smell will leave her nasal passages before she has to take another breath.
It's also true that my cat might have some obsessions, some compulsions, and that maybe she needs a little therapy because a day doesn't go by when she doesn't engage in this:
No, I'm not talking about the kneading of the cat bed that she absolutely refuses to sleep in. Cats knead. I know. My old cat would knead anything--a bed, a blanket, my head--with the hopes of making it just the smallest bit more comfortable before she settled down on it.
No, what I'm talking about is the thing hanging from her mouth as she does the kneading. That is batting from the underside of my recliner. Abbey no longer has her front claws, but she's a resourceful girl. She gums and nips at that batting until there are giant piles of it stored up under the chair. For a while, I was gathering those piles up when they got too big and started peeking out from underneath the chair's edges. I gathered them up and put them in the corner, on her cat bed, the one she never sleeps in, the one that instead of being used for sleep is used for storing her various toys: mice, ribbons, jingle balls, and that creepy G.I. Joe figurine she dragged out from some unknown nook or cranny in the old apartment.
For a while at night, when I was watching television or reading a book or something, I'd hear a tinkle of the jingle balls as Abbey puttered around near the cat bed and her toys. I didn't really think anything of it. And then one night I actually watched what she was doing. She was digging her nose deep into the mountain of batting and holding it in her mouth before kneading the cat bed beneath her.
It is her favorite thing to do. She won't knead unless there's fluff. But if there is fluff--and, since she pulled out quite a bit of the extra stuffing from my chair, there is plenty of fluff--she will go to town on that bed like it's nobody's business. She looks like Santa Claus. She looks a little wild-eyed and crazy. She looks like she's two seconds away from being shuttled off to the loony bin.
I love it, of course. It's one of my favorite things to watch. It's ridiculously cute. It makes me want to get down on the floor next to her and examine the ritual from all angles because maybe I'll figure out why she loves it, why she has to do it, why she needs to look so much like a miniature Santa Claus while she kneads a bed she will never sleep in.
Abbey has a lot of interesting and funny habits. For instance, she has a very distinct face she makes whenever she smells something she does not like. She makes this face when there's some gross foreign scent on the carpet, when there's orange or orange peel or orange-scented dust spray around, and when she gives herself bath in the ass area. The face is one of true revulsion. It is a face that says, Oh just what the hell is THAT? She wrinkles up her nose, separates her jaw so that her teeth show, and stares off into the distance for a minute, hoping that smell will leave her nasal passages before she has to take another breath.
It's also true that my cat might have some obsessions, some compulsions, and that maybe she needs a little therapy because a day doesn't go by when she doesn't engage in this:
No, I'm not talking about the kneading of the cat bed that she absolutely refuses to sleep in. Cats knead. I know. My old cat would knead anything--a bed, a blanket, my head--with the hopes of making it just the smallest bit more comfortable before she settled down on it.
No, what I'm talking about is the thing hanging from her mouth as she does the kneading. That is batting from the underside of my recliner. Abbey no longer has her front claws, but she's a resourceful girl. She gums and nips at that batting until there are giant piles of it stored up under the chair. For a while, I was gathering those piles up when they got too big and started peeking out from underneath the chair's edges. I gathered them up and put them in the corner, on her cat bed, the one she never sleeps in, the one that instead of being used for sleep is used for storing her various toys: mice, ribbons, jingle balls, and that creepy G.I. Joe figurine she dragged out from some unknown nook or cranny in the old apartment.
For a while at night, when I was watching television or reading a book or something, I'd hear a tinkle of the jingle balls as Abbey puttered around near the cat bed and her toys. I didn't really think anything of it. And then one night I actually watched what she was doing. She was digging her nose deep into the mountain of batting and holding it in her mouth before kneading the cat bed beneath her.
It is her favorite thing to do. She won't knead unless there's fluff. But if there is fluff--and, since she pulled out quite a bit of the extra stuffing from my chair, there is plenty of fluff--she will go to town on that bed like it's nobody's business. She looks like Santa Claus. She looks a little wild-eyed and crazy. She looks like she's two seconds away from being shuttled off to the loony bin.
I love it, of course. It's one of my favorite things to watch. It's ridiculously cute. It makes me want to get down on the floor next to her and examine the ritual from all angles because maybe I'll figure out why she loves it, why she has to do it, why she needs to look so much like a miniature Santa Claus while she kneads a bed she will never sleep in.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
At Least I Have Help Packing
Abbey is in love with the obstacle course that is my apartment right now. She loves dashing around boxes, over boxes, into boxes. She loves burrowing under the heaps of packing paper. She loves that things are messy. And things are messy. Very, very, very messy.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Distempered
Today Abbey had an appointment--her first--at the veterinarian. There are a lot of vets in town, so when it came time for me to pick one, I picked one based on location. I picked the one closest to school.
I picked poorly.
Let me put this into perspective. There's a scene in Dirty Dancing, right after Penny, who's been knocked up by that creepy waiter, has come back from having an abortion, and she's sick, she's cramping, she's moaning. The guy who'd gone with her to the appointment grabs Johnny and says, "He had a folding table and a dirty knife!" It was not what you'd call a professional atmosphere.
The room I walked into today reminded me a little of what I imagine that whole setting had been for poor skinny, knocked-up Penny. There was a stainless steel table that didn't look all that clean, an old fridge humming in the corner, a glass container full of needles, a few cotton balls scattered underneath a bench near the wall. There were rubber hoses and machines that were broadcasting temperatures and numbers and seemed vague of purpose, old.
Now, it's true that I don't have a lot of experience with vets, mostly because my last cat, Dusty, was a tough indoor-outdoor cat, and we only took her in on the rare occasion that she got herself into some tough scrape--that time she got an infection in her foot and it swelled up to three times its size (I traced its shape and girth onto a blank piece of paper before we left the house so we wouldn't forget how gross it had been) or that time she got in a fight with something much bigger than she was, and it almost tore out her eye. But what I do remember about those trips to the vet is this: crispness, whiteness, lab coats, bustling waiting rooms filled with kenneled or leashed animals.
This particular vet's office was attached to his house, and no one else was there. When I arrived, the lights were off, and I had to ring a doorbell before entering. And then I stood waiting near the reception area until an old man eased a door open and stepped inside.
He didn't say anything, so I did.
"Hi," I said. "I had an appointment for one o'clock."
"Ahhh you Samanthaaah?" he asked, his voice thick with Maine accent.
"No," I said. "I'm Jessica."
He looked confused. "Whahht ahhh you heahh for?" he asked.
"Shots," I said. "Shots for my kitten."
"Whahht?" he said.
"Shots for my kitten," I repeated.
"Ahm hahhd of heahhing," he said. "Whahht ahhh you heahh for?"
"SHOTS!" I said. "SHOTS FOR MY CAT!"
"Whahht?"
"SHOTS! SHOTS! MY KITTEN NEEDS SHOTS!"
"Ahh kitty?"
"YES! A KITTY! SHOTS FOR MY KITTY!"
He nodded, finally understanding what I was there for. He told me to go around the corner so we could get down to business, and I did. I don't know what I expected to see, what I expected to happen. I guess I expected to see a crisp white room, a crisp white jacket he could shrug into. I guess I expected him to prepare himself--wash his hands, check a chart, give Abbey a look-see--before he shot her up with shots for distemper, rabies, and leukemia, but he didn't. He just asked me to put her on the table, and then he turned to rummage in the fridge--the type you'd see in a dorm room--for the appropriate vials.
I was two seconds from picking up the cat carrier and dashing out the door. The only reason I stayed was because I was busy trying to make psychic deals with my kitten. I was looking down at Abbey, who was looking up at me like, WHO THE HELL IS THIS GUY AND WHY IS HE WEARING A COSBY SWEATER?, and I was trying to tell her with my eyes that it was okay, it was fine, I was going to get her her shots and boosters here, but for the declawing and everything else I would take her somewhere else, somewhere with vets in lab coats, somewhere with people in the lobby, somewhere that didn't look like a scene out of a horror movie, somewhere that didn't remind me of the dentist's office my parents used to go when I was little--the one with the dark wood paneling and the world's most terrifying macrame owl decorations on the wall. I did not psychically tell that cat that that dentist was a butcher and that I, a little girl sitting in an owl-ed waiting room, could often hear my mother crying out in pain while he worked on her without Novocaine. I didn't think she would want to hear that part of the story, especially since I had the same kind of feeling in my bones that I used to have when I entered that dentist's office.
I unzipped Abbey's carrier and was fairly impressed when she didn't immediately bolt out of the room. She let me pick her up and hold her and kiss her forehead. I did not want to put her on that table, but I summoned the strength and placed her paws to the steel.
It was over pretty quickly--one, two, three--and she only cried a little, right before he stuck her scruff with the third shot. After that, he wrote out a payment slip and a card that had Abbey's booster shot appointment on it, and then we were gone, gone, gone.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I whispered as I walked down the steps, down to my car. I talked to Abbey the whole way home, telling her we were almost there, we were so close. I told her I was going to give her treats and some of her favorite wet food. I told her she could pretty much do whatever she wanted all day, and I wouldn't say one thing about it. If she wanted to bite my ankles because I took her to see a man who grabbed her by the neck and thrust a sharp needle into it, so be it. I would take my lumps. I probably deserve them. Poor little kitten.
I picked poorly.
Let me put this into perspective. There's a scene in Dirty Dancing, right after Penny, who's been knocked up by that creepy waiter, has come back from having an abortion, and she's sick, she's cramping, she's moaning. The guy who'd gone with her to the appointment grabs Johnny and says, "He had a folding table and a dirty knife!" It was not what you'd call a professional atmosphere.
The room I walked into today reminded me a little of what I imagine that whole setting had been for poor skinny, knocked-up Penny. There was a stainless steel table that didn't look all that clean, an old fridge humming in the corner, a glass container full of needles, a few cotton balls scattered underneath a bench near the wall. There were rubber hoses and machines that were broadcasting temperatures and numbers and seemed vague of purpose, old.
Now, it's true that I don't have a lot of experience with vets, mostly because my last cat, Dusty, was a tough indoor-outdoor cat, and we only took her in on the rare occasion that she got herself into some tough scrape--that time she got an infection in her foot and it swelled up to three times its size (I traced its shape and girth onto a blank piece of paper before we left the house so we wouldn't forget how gross it had been) or that time she got in a fight with something much bigger than she was, and it almost tore out her eye. But what I do remember about those trips to the vet is this: crispness, whiteness, lab coats, bustling waiting rooms filled with kenneled or leashed animals.
This particular vet's office was attached to his house, and no one else was there. When I arrived, the lights were off, and I had to ring a doorbell before entering. And then I stood waiting near the reception area until an old man eased a door open and stepped inside.
He didn't say anything, so I did.
"Hi," I said. "I had an appointment for one o'clock."
"Ahhh you Samanthaaah?" he asked, his voice thick with Maine accent.
"No," I said. "I'm Jessica."
He looked confused. "Whahht ahhh you heahh for?" he asked.
"Shots," I said. "Shots for my kitten."
"Whahht?" he said.
"Shots for my kitten," I repeated.
"Ahm hahhd of heahhing," he said. "Whahht ahhh you heahh for?"
"SHOTS!" I said. "SHOTS FOR MY CAT!"
"Whahht?"
"SHOTS! SHOTS! MY KITTEN NEEDS SHOTS!"
"Ahh kitty?"
"YES! A KITTY! SHOTS FOR MY KITTY!"
He nodded, finally understanding what I was there for. He told me to go around the corner so we could get down to business, and I did. I don't know what I expected to see, what I expected to happen. I guess I expected to see a crisp white room, a crisp white jacket he could shrug into. I guess I expected him to prepare himself--wash his hands, check a chart, give Abbey a look-see--before he shot her up with shots for distemper, rabies, and leukemia, but he didn't. He just asked me to put her on the table, and then he turned to rummage in the fridge--the type you'd see in a dorm room--for the appropriate vials.
I was two seconds from picking up the cat carrier and dashing out the door. The only reason I stayed was because I was busy trying to make psychic deals with my kitten. I was looking down at Abbey, who was looking up at me like, WHO THE HELL IS THIS GUY AND WHY IS HE WEARING A COSBY SWEATER?, and I was trying to tell her with my eyes that it was okay, it was fine, I was going to get her her shots and boosters here, but for the declawing and everything else I would take her somewhere else, somewhere with vets in lab coats, somewhere with people in the lobby, somewhere that didn't look like a scene out of a horror movie, somewhere that didn't remind me of the dentist's office my parents used to go when I was little--the one with the dark wood paneling and the world's most terrifying macrame owl decorations on the wall. I did not psychically tell that cat that that dentist was a butcher and that I, a little girl sitting in an owl-ed waiting room, could often hear my mother crying out in pain while he worked on her without Novocaine. I didn't think she would want to hear that part of the story, especially since I had the same kind of feeling in my bones that I used to have when I entered that dentist's office.
I unzipped Abbey's carrier and was fairly impressed when she didn't immediately bolt out of the room. She let me pick her up and hold her and kiss her forehead. I did not want to put her on that table, but I summoned the strength and placed her paws to the steel.
It was over pretty quickly--one, two, three--and she only cried a little, right before he stuck her scruff with the third shot. After that, he wrote out a payment slip and a card that had Abbey's booster shot appointment on it, and then we were gone, gone, gone.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I whispered as I walked down the steps, down to my car. I talked to Abbey the whole way home, telling her we were almost there, we were so close. I told her I was going to give her treats and some of her favorite wet food. I told her she could pretty much do whatever she wanted all day, and I wouldn't say one thing about it. If she wanted to bite my ankles because I took her to see a man who grabbed her by the neck and thrust a sharp needle into it, so be it. I would take my lumps. I probably deserve them. Poor little kitten.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
As Clean as a Kitten Can Get
Here is a list of things my kitten loves:
- Climbing my curtains
- Sleeping under the covers
- Scratching my school bag
- Chasing her tail
- Leaping from my bed to the back of my desk chair
- Dancing across the radiators
- Being made into the bed each morning
- Watching me shower
Abbey is obsessed with the shower. Each morning she comes bounding into the bathroom the second she hears the faucet turn on. She hooks her two front paws over the edge and watches the water rumble into the tub while I get the temperature just right. When I switch over to the shower, she scoots herself onto the ledge and takes up residence between the liner and the curtain.
When I am finally in the shower and soaping up, that's when Abbey peeks her head around the corner and settles in to watch me shower. She can't get over the things I do in there. She's especially impressed when I shave my legs.
Well, over the weekend Abbey got a little too impressed. She was beside herself with excitement over an unexpected night shower--I was getting ready to go to stuff myself with sauerkraut and kuchen at the department's Oktoberfest party--and she got a little too antsy. One of her paws slipped in some water and then she was in the tub and being pelted with water. It was an unlucky time for that to happen, too, because I was at the point in my shower where I was washing my face, and I'd soaped my eyes up good and was still washing them out when I felt a tangle of fur and claws tumble into my legs. I shrieked. Abbey shrieked. I scrubbed at my eyes. Abbey lunged out of the tub.
When I had stopped the water and gotten a towel around me, I peeked my head out of the bathroom and found Abbey sitting across the hall in the spare room. She was shivering and looking sad. Poor kitten. Poor, wet, spiky kitten.
And let me tell you this: she did not like the towel-down she got after that picture was taken. She didn't like that one bit.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Don't Tell Me My Closet Is Repulsive. I Already Know.
Regular posting will resume shortly. For now, check out just how naughty and wild my kitten is.
This morning I was getting ready for work when I realized Abbey was nowhere to be found. Usually when she's nowhere to be found that means she's on the other side of the apartment, doing Rockette kicks across the kitchen table because she knows she's not supposed to be up there and she loves to prove that she can do it even if I say no! no! no!
But today she wasn't anywhere near the kitchen. She was in a whole new spot causing trouble.
She was in my closet, where she'd managed to somehow get up onto a high shelf. Once on that high shelf, she was hesitantly extending a paw at a time to see if the row of hangers was stable enough to walk across. After all, in Abbey-World, something's not worth doing unless it's dangerous and sort of stupid.
When I saw her, I started laughing. It was funny. It was ridiculous to see such a tiny kitten up that high. And when I started laughing she just looked at me and said, Mew?--all like, What? What's so funny?
So I had to bring her down and banish her from the closet, lest she try to tap dance across the very, very, very tiny space that serves as storage for my clothes.
This morning I was getting ready for work when I realized Abbey was nowhere to be found. Usually when she's nowhere to be found that means she's on the other side of the apartment, doing Rockette kicks across the kitchen table because she knows she's not supposed to be up there and she loves to prove that she can do it even if I say no! no! no!
But today she wasn't anywhere near the kitchen. She was in a whole new spot causing trouble.
She was in my closet, where she'd managed to somehow get up onto a high shelf. Once on that high shelf, she was hesitantly extending a paw at a time to see if the row of hangers was stable enough to walk across. After all, in Abbey-World, something's not worth doing unless it's dangerous and sort of stupid.
When I saw her, I started laughing. It was funny. It was ridiculous to see such a tiny kitten up that high. And when I started laughing she just looked at me and said, Mew?--all like, What? What's so funny?
So I had to bring her down and banish her from the closet, lest she try to tap dance across the very, very, very tiny space that serves as storage for my clothes.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Now If She'd Only Find Some Lincoln Logs, We Could Build a Totally Awesome Fort
The thing about having a very, very tiny kitten is that she can fit just about anywhere. She can wiggle her body into any crevice, any chink, any corner of my apartment and burrow down into forgotten folds of carpet or dusty stretches of hardwood floor.
Until I got her, I didn't realize just how dirty my apartment was. Let's face it--there are places you generally avoid when you clean because, well, no one can see them, and if no one can see them, what does it matter?
Well, when you get a kitten who comes out of those crevices, chinks, and corners with giant dust-balls clinging to her whiskers, when you have a kitten who develops a sniffle--which you assume to be from all the dust she's inhaling when she's playing in those hard-to-reach places--you realize that suddenly it does matter.
But it's not just dust and grime. It's also weird, forgotten things from previous residents. In the last month, Abbey has dragged a few Leggo pieces and a neon green plastic soldier into my bedroom, which is her favorite place to play. I don't know where she found any of these things--maybe in the back corners under the radiators?--but suddenly they're here, and they're hers, and I have a feeling if I throw them out, she'd be pretty pissed at me.
I could've used Abbey and her gift for ferreting out the things left by previous tenants when I first moved here last year. The first few days I kept finding strange things that had been left behind: tampons, baking dishes, hoses that looked like they belonged on the back of a dryer. It grossed me out to touch things that didn't belong to me--after all, what did I know about the people who were here before me, and why should I have to be touching their tampons?--but it might've been easier if she'd corralled those things for me, put them all in one place, and I could've scooped them up into a trash bag and never thought about them again.
Until I got her, I didn't realize just how dirty my apartment was. Let's face it--there are places you generally avoid when you clean because, well, no one can see them, and if no one can see them, what does it matter?
Well, when you get a kitten who comes out of those crevices, chinks, and corners with giant dust-balls clinging to her whiskers, when you have a kitten who develops a sniffle--which you assume to be from all the dust she's inhaling when she's playing in those hard-to-reach places--you realize that suddenly it does matter.
But it's not just dust and grime. It's also weird, forgotten things from previous residents. In the last month, Abbey has dragged a few Leggo pieces and a neon green plastic soldier into my bedroom, which is her favorite place to play. I don't know where she found any of these things--maybe in the back corners under the radiators?--but suddenly they're here, and they're hers, and I have a feeling if I throw them out, she'd be pretty pissed at me.
I could've used Abbey and her gift for ferreting out the things left by previous tenants when I first moved here last year. The first few days I kept finding strange things that had been left behind: tampons, baking dishes, hoses that looked like they belonged on the back of a dryer. It grossed me out to touch things that didn't belong to me--after all, what did I know about the people who were here before me, and why should I have to be touching their tampons?--but it might've been easier if she'd corralled those things for me, put them all in one place, and I could've scooped them up into a trash bag and never thought about them again.
She sure is handy.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Abbey Disapproves of My Attempts to Keep Her From Getting Under My Desk
My mother and her boyfriend and her boyfriend's son (you know, this kid) have arrived to tour Maine's coast. My mother has another agenda, too, and that's to snuggle my kitten as much as humanly possible. In fact, when she left work on Monday afternoon she announced to the whole office that she was going to Maine not to visit her daughter but to visit her daughter's cat. And since my mother brought me an early birthday present that was packed in layers of tissue paper and ribbons, Abbey thinks she's just about the best thing ever because, well, ribbons are the best thing ever. She's enamored of the whole ribbon-bearing group, and she's taken up residence on their laps, in their arms, and in their shoes.
So, until they've gone and until I can come back up from the whirling, lobster-filled mini-vacation, there will be a new picture of Abbey here every day to fill the space. The first is one I like to call Abbey Disapproves of My Attempts to Keep Her From Getting Under My Desk. I used rolled up sweatshirts and stacks of envelopes to block the different entrance points--thin, claustrophobic--to the swampy area behind the computer, but she got around them anyway, and I'd have to reach behind and pluck her out of the tangle of wires every day. She is nothing if not resourceful.
So, until they've gone and until I can come back up from the whirling, lobster-filled mini-vacation, there will be a new picture of Abbey here every day to fill the space. The first is one I like to call Abbey Disapproves of My Attempts to Keep Her From Getting Under My Desk. I used rolled up sweatshirts and stacks of envelopes to block the different entrance points--thin, claustrophobic--to the swampy area behind the computer, but she got around them anyway, and I'd have to reach behind and pluck her out of the tangle of wires every day. She is nothing if not resourceful.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
The Arrival
She's here. Abbey and her pink nose, her tabby stripes, her freckled toe-pads. She's here, and she's adorable.
Here's what I know so far about my cat: I know she likes my boyfriend better than she likes me. The day I brought her back to my father's house for a night before driving back to Maine, she immediately crawled under the couch and wouldn't come out. She burrowed in the back and cried if ever I tried to coax her out. When the Boy From Work came over after his shift at the restaurant, he said a few kind words to her, scooped her up, and kissed-kissed-kissed her. From that moment on, Abbey was his best girl. She climbed all over him. She curled up on his back. She let him hold her in the palm of his hand. She was excited every time he lifted her into the air and flew her from one place to the next. She watched the Olympics with him, curled into his side, purring.
Here's what else I know about my cat: she's an itchy-twitchy-jumping machine. She loves to climb. She has no fear. She doesn't even mind that jump she tried from the bed to the bookshelves, the one that failed and had her falling to the floor in a tangle of still-uncoordinated limbs.
Abbey is wobbly. She is startled by shadows. She is still getting used to the hardwood floors of my apartment and how they affect her gait, her balance, her ability to stop. She skitters, she slides, she swoops from one room to the other in search of her crab, her lobster, her catnip-filled leopard-print mouse. She loves ribbons and wires. She loves the pillows on my bed.
Abbey's newest favorite thing to do is stick her head into the foot of my slippers and drive them around my bedroom floor. Before that, her favorite things included leaping at my window screens and balancing on the top of my mini rocking chair.
Abbey is a napper. She loves to sleep on her stomach, her feet kicked up to the ceiling. She loves to sleep in the warmest, smallest crooks of a person's body, and for the past two nights I have woken up to her nestled in the angle of my arm. Sometimes she'll drape herself around my neck like a scarf, and other times she'll wedge herself between the two pillows on my bed and tip her stomach upward so she sleeps looking like a baby, a human, a little girl.
But--most importantly--I think she is beginning to love me. I think she is beginning to see that I'm an okay kind of girl, that I hated to take her away from her mother, that I'm going to spend the rest of her life making it up to her. I will let her sleep on my neck, on my back, on my arm, on my stomach--wherever she wants. I will barely move in my sleep so I don't upset her. I will turn my music down when she's napping so she isn't bumped out of dreams. I will do all these things because I'm beginning to love her, too.
Oh, who am I kidding? I loved her a long time ago.
Here's what I know so far about my cat: I know she likes my boyfriend better than she likes me. The day I brought her back to my father's house for a night before driving back to Maine, she immediately crawled under the couch and wouldn't come out. She burrowed in the back and cried if ever I tried to coax her out. When the Boy From Work came over after his shift at the restaurant, he said a few kind words to her, scooped her up, and kissed-kissed-kissed her. From that moment on, Abbey was his best girl. She climbed all over him. She curled up on his back. She let him hold her in the palm of his hand. She was excited every time he lifted her into the air and flew her from one place to the next. She watched the Olympics with him, curled into his side, purring.
Here's what else I know about my cat: she's an itchy-twitchy-jumping machine. She loves to climb. She has no fear. She doesn't even mind that jump she tried from the bed to the bookshelves, the one that failed and had her falling to the floor in a tangle of still-uncoordinated limbs.
Abbey is wobbly. She is startled by shadows. She is still getting used to the hardwood floors of my apartment and how they affect her gait, her balance, her ability to stop. She skitters, she slides, she swoops from one room to the other in search of her crab, her lobster, her catnip-filled leopard-print mouse. She loves ribbons and wires. She loves the pillows on my bed.
Abbey's newest favorite thing to do is stick her head into the foot of my slippers and drive them around my bedroom floor. Before that, her favorite things included leaping at my window screens and balancing on the top of my mini rocking chair.
Abbey is a napper. She loves to sleep on her stomach, her feet kicked up to the ceiling. She loves to sleep in the warmest, smallest crooks of a person's body, and for the past two nights I have woken up to her nestled in the angle of my arm. Sometimes she'll drape herself around my neck like a scarf, and other times she'll wedge herself between the two pillows on my bed and tip her stomach upward so she sleeps looking like a baby, a human, a little girl.
But--most importantly--I think she is beginning to love me. I think she is beginning to see that I'm an okay kind of girl, that I hated to take her away from her mother, that I'm going to spend the rest of her life making it up to her. I will let her sleep on my neck, on my back, on my arm, on my stomach--wherever she wants. I will barely move in my sleep so I don't upset her. I will turn my music down when she's napping so she isn't bumped out of dreams. I will do all these things because I'm beginning to love her, too.
Oh, who am I kidding? I loved her a long time ago.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
It'll Have to Do
This Sunday was the annual family reunion. It was going to be a good day. There was going to be good food and new babies (and let's not lie--this one's the cutest) and the traditional mocking of absent relatives. But that wasn't all. In fact, after the family reunion, I was driving back to my father's house, parking the car, walking next door, and putting a kitten into a carrying case so I could take her home to be my own.
But none of that could happen until we got through the reunion. After dinner--hot dogs, corn, a bevy of pasta and fruit salads--my grandmother stood up, clanged an empty pop can on the back of a clipboard, and tried to raise her voice over the din.
"EXCUSE ME!" she said.
No one excused her.
"EXCUSE ME!" she tried again--this time with more success. People stopped chatting and turned to face her. They knew what was coming: the Annual Revelation of Good News.
The Annual Revelation of Good News hasn't always been good to me. For example, the year I graduated from grad school--something I thought was a pretty impressive feat--my grandmother forgot to mention it. She ran through the list she'd marked up of everyone else's good news--marriages, births, other grandkids' graduations--and then she said, "Anything I missed?"
I blinked. My family blinked. Finally, my father said, "Uhm, Mom? Jess graduated."
"Oh," my grandmother said, and she bent to write it down on her list. That was it.
Since then, nothing terribly important (birth or marriage) has happened that would wrangle me a spot on the Annual Revelation of Good News. This year looked like it was going to be no exception. Grandma listed a slew of babies and a few marriages, and that was that. When she finished her list, she bent over to grin at me. "What about you, Jessie?" she said. "Any engagements for me to write down?"
"No," I said.
"Any other good news?" my grandmother asked.
"She's adopting a kitten," one of my cousins offered. "She's getting a cat named Abbey."
And my grandmother--perhaps figuring that's as good as she's going to get from her possibly lesbian granddaughter with the "boyfriend" who was busy behind the line of his restaurant and thus suspiciously absent from the family reunion--smiled and started writing that down in the Annual Revelation of Good News's notebook. When she finished, she turned the paper toward us as proof. There, underneath the list of other happy occasions--weddings, anniversaries, births--was this entry: August 2008. Jessie adopts a cat named Abbie.
And that was good enough for me.
After all, a few hours later, I would open up a carrying case and let a pink-nosed cat named Abbey scamper out onto the floor:
But none of that could happen until we got through the reunion. After dinner--hot dogs, corn, a bevy of pasta and fruit salads--my grandmother stood up, clanged an empty pop can on the back of a clipboard, and tried to raise her voice over the din.
"EXCUSE ME!" she said.
No one excused her.
"EXCUSE ME!" she tried again--this time with more success. People stopped chatting and turned to face her. They knew what was coming: the Annual Revelation of Good News.
The Annual Revelation of Good News hasn't always been good to me. For example, the year I graduated from grad school--something I thought was a pretty impressive feat--my grandmother forgot to mention it. She ran through the list she'd marked up of everyone else's good news--marriages, births, other grandkids' graduations--and then she said, "Anything I missed?"
I blinked. My family blinked. Finally, my father said, "Uhm, Mom? Jess graduated."
"Oh," my grandmother said, and she bent to write it down on her list. That was it.
Since then, nothing terribly important (birth or marriage) has happened that would wrangle me a spot on the Annual Revelation of Good News. This year looked like it was going to be no exception. Grandma listed a slew of babies and a few marriages, and that was that. When she finished her list, she bent over to grin at me. "What about you, Jessie?" she said. "Any engagements for me to write down?"
"No," I said.
"Any other good news?" my grandmother asked.
"She's adopting a kitten," one of my cousins offered. "She's getting a cat named Abbey."
And my grandmother--perhaps figuring that's as good as she's going to get from her possibly lesbian granddaughter with the "boyfriend" who was busy behind the line of his restaurant and thus suspiciously absent from the family reunion--smiled and started writing that down in the Annual Revelation of Good News's notebook. When she finished, she turned the paper toward us as proof. There, underneath the list of other happy occasions--weddings, anniversaries, births--was this entry: August 2008. Jessie adopts a cat named Abbie.
And that was good enough for me.
After all, a few hours later, I would open up a carrying case and let a pink-nosed cat named Abbey scamper out onto the floor:
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Just Let a Girl Buy Catnip Filled Lobsters in Peace
Today was a very exciting day. Today was the day I drove down to Portland to wander through the aisles of PetCo so I could fill a cart with all the things I need to make my home friendly for this kitten:
When I first got to the store, there was a girl near the door who told me to let her know if I needed help with anything. I smiled, said sure, and booked it back to the cat supplies. I had big decisions to make. I needed to find the right litter box, the right food dishes, the right kitten food, the right toys, and the right carrier because--as much as it pains me, the former owner of a very independent indoor/outdoor cat who would've clawed our faces off if ever we tried to stuff her into a duffel bag--I am going to now be those irritating owners of a very cosmopolitan, very travel-savvy kitten. When I go home for Christmas, for example, Abbey the Pink Nosed is going to come with me.
Well, when I got back to the cat section, a loafing employee--a guy with thick glasses who was just leaning against a stack of cat food--said, "If you have any questions, just let me know."
I smiled and nodded. I then proceeded to examine every row of cat supplies the store had to offer. I kept going back to the litter box area because that was one of the things that was stumping me the most. When I went back a third time, the employee said, "Questions? Let me know."
I didn't smile this time. I just nodded. I got it. I knew where I was supposed to go if I had questions.
When I rounded the food aisle the next time, he said, "You know, I'm a food specialist, so if you have any questions, please let me know."
I wanted to screech my cart to a stop. I wanted to tell him, "I KNOW. I UNDERSTAND. I AM NOT A MORON. I GET THAT YOU ARE THE GUY TO GO TO FOR INFORMATION. I. DON'T. NEED. ANY."
When I moved an aisle over to the cat beds, another employee came up to ask me if I needed any help. Another aisle over yet another employee wanted to know if he could be of any assistance.
I was two seconds from screaming. I just wanted to shop in peace, but in a ten minute span I had been hounded by four separate employees--and one of them got me several times. I understand the importance of personal contact with shoppers--I get why that's important--but I don't think asking them if they have any questions each time they round a corner is a winning strategy. All that cheery helpfulness in the name of a sale made me want to run screaming from the store. It was supposed to be a leisurely, fun experience, but instead I felt very watched, very monitored. I was downright claustrophobic. I felt that if I even furrowed my brow a smidge when reading a label, the PetCo people would descend on me and ask if they could please, please, pretty, pretty please help. And all I'd wanted in the first place was to giggle and read the suggested uses of the Kitty Laster Pointer 2.0--now with interchangeable shape pointers!
Still, I did manage to make it out of the store with most of the stuff I will need to transform my apartment into a kitten den. I got the litter box, the litter, the food dishes, the food, the cat bed, and several impressive toys which Abbey will get sick of in a week's time. But I'm hoping she'll have an extended love for the catnip-filled toys that came set shaped as a lobster and a crab. This is Maine, after all, and she better start getting used to seeing those things everywhere.
When I first got to the store, there was a girl near the door who told me to let her know if I needed help with anything. I smiled, said sure, and booked it back to the cat supplies. I had big decisions to make. I needed to find the right litter box, the right food dishes, the right kitten food, the right toys, and the right carrier because--as much as it pains me, the former owner of a very independent indoor/outdoor cat who would've clawed our faces off if ever we tried to stuff her into a duffel bag--I am going to now be those irritating owners of a very cosmopolitan, very travel-savvy kitten. When I go home for Christmas, for example, Abbey the Pink Nosed is going to come with me.
Well, when I got back to the cat section, a loafing employee--a guy with thick glasses who was just leaning against a stack of cat food--said, "If you have any questions, just let me know."
I smiled and nodded. I then proceeded to examine every row of cat supplies the store had to offer. I kept going back to the litter box area because that was one of the things that was stumping me the most. When I went back a third time, the employee said, "Questions? Let me know."
I didn't smile this time. I just nodded. I got it. I knew where I was supposed to go if I had questions.
When I rounded the food aisle the next time, he said, "You know, I'm a food specialist, so if you have any questions, please let me know."
I wanted to screech my cart to a stop. I wanted to tell him, "I KNOW. I UNDERSTAND. I AM NOT A MORON. I GET THAT YOU ARE THE GUY TO GO TO FOR INFORMATION. I. DON'T. NEED. ANY."
When I moved an aisle over to the cat beds, another employee came up to ask me if I needed any help. Another aisle over yet another employee wanted to know if he could be of any assistance.
I was two seconds from screaming. I just wanted to shop in peace, but in a ten minute span I had been hounded by four separate employees--and one of them got me several times. I understand the importance of personal contact with shoppers--I get why that's important--but I don't think asking them if they have any questions each time they round a corner is a winning strategy. All that cheery helpfulness in the name of a sale made me want to run screaming from the store. It was supposed to be a leisurely, fun experience, but instead I felt very watched, very monitored. I was downright claustrophobic. I felt that if I even furrowed my brow a smidge when reading a label, the PetCo people would descend on me and ask if they could please, please, pretty, pretty please help. And all I'd wanted in the first place was to giggle and read the suggested uses of the Kitty Laster Pointer 2.0--now with interchangeable shape pointers!
Still, I did manage to make it out of the store with most of the stuff I will need to transform my apartment into a kitten den. I got the litter box, the litter, the food dishes, the food, the cat bed, and several impressive toys which Abbey will get sick of in a week's time. But I'm hoping she'll have an extended love for the catnip-filled toys that came set shaped as a lobster and a crab. This is Maine, after all, and she better start getting used to seeing those things everywhere.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Thank God I Have a Boyfriend
If I didn't have a boyfriend, I would turn into a completely crazy cat lady. It's something I've always been afraid of because I really like cats. Really. And if I didn't have anything else to do with my time, I might just be the kind of girl who would learn to sew just so she could stitch elaborate holiday outfits for cats she's named Mrs. Fuzzy Paws, Jingle Jinx, and Herbert.
But, thankfully, I have the BFW--not to mention a few dozen friends who would bitchslap me if I ever turned into a seamstress for cats. Still, when you see a video like the one below--of little Abbey and her curious mother--it's easy to imagine how we're all maybe one or two margaritas away from composing songs about our cats, from picking up a pottery class so we can mold our cats' sweet faces into clay busts for our mantels.
But, thankfully, I have the BFW--not to mention a few dozen friends who would bitchslap me if I ever turned into a seamstress for cats. Still, when you see a video like the one below--of little Abbey and her curious mother--it's easy to imagine how we're all maybe one or two margaritas away from composing songs about our cats, from picking up a pottery class so we can mold our cats' sweet faces into clay busts for our mantels.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Two Weeks Old
This last week of vacation has been busy-busy-busy, but that doesn't mean it was so busy I couldn't sneak in a photo shoot with my soon-to-be kitten Abbey. Here are a few of her and her brothers.
Shy Abbey:
Brother #1:
Full-On Abbey:
Startled Brother:
Me, In Love:
Shy Abbey:
Brother #1:
Full-On Abbey:
Startled Brother:
Me, In Love:
Sunday, June 29, 2008
World, Meet Very-Possibly-Abbey
A few months back, my uncle found a cat--young, dusty, startled--in his garage. The cat wasn't skittish or scared around him or other people. In fact, she would come right over and rub all up and down your leg. She meowed. She threaded through legs. She let you pick her up and hold her like she was a sweet, sweet baby. He figured she'd been someone's cat at some point--the point before they dropped her off and the side of the road, crossed their fingers, and hoped for the best. He felt awfully sorry for the cat. She was beautiful and loving. There was no way she deserved a fate that had her living underneath old farm equipment in his garage.
So my uncle said, "Hey, Jess. You should take her."
This was over Christmas. I'd driven home, so it wasn't out of the question that I could pack her up like she was part of my Christmas booty and chauffeur her back to Maine, where she would live a good life roaming the large rooms of my apartment. I said I'd think about it. I'd been wanting a cat, after all, and this was a nice opportunity.
However, after I packed my car full of suitcases, presents, and my cousin Kait, who was coming back for a brisk mini-vacation before she went back to school for the new semester, there was absolutely no room for a cat carrier. I had to call my uncle and say there was just no way it was going to happen, as much as I wanted it to. I knew the cat would be fine. My uncle has a soft heart for cats--this sweet, white-footed one in particular--and it wasn't in him to leave her cold, lonely, and hungry.
And I was right. The cat became Socks, and Socks, who really is quite a pretty cat, got to know some of the neighborhood cats. And I think you can imagine what happened next.
Last month when I was home after our trip to Mexico, I wandered over to my uncle's house, and the cat flopped at my feet, purring. She was very, very pregnant. "She's huge," my uncle said. "It can't be long now."
And it wasn't. Just recently, Socks gave birth to three kittens in an elaborate and cozy birthing suite my uncle nested on the back porch. And a few days ago I finally got to see them, finally got to lay claim to which of the kittens I want for my own. It was a hard choice. All three kittens are ridiculously adorable. Two are brown tabbies like their mother--one of which even has the same four white feet as her.
The third kitten has a striped tabby tail, a white body with a few brown splotches, a tabby face, and--the cutest thing ever--a pink nose. And to top it off, the pink-nosed white kitten was a girl, and I love female cats. It was love at first sight.
It's not a good picture, but that right there is my kitten. That right there, nestled in my chest (the chest that everyone I've shown the picture to claims is not mine. "Sorry," Amy said last night, "you have a really nice chest and all, but your boobs aren't that big.") is the kitten who will very possibly be named Abbey--a name I've been chanting to myself ever since I decided it was time to get a cat. The Boy From Work has an alternate name--Eva--and I like that, too. I am coming back for the kitten in August, and if she has a more aristocratic, more sophisticated air to her, she might very well become Eva. But if she's more sassy than sophisticated, it's going to have to be Abbey.
That is her white-footed brother. He mew-mew-mewed when we picked him up. He was so pleased to be in the cup of my father's hands.
That's all the siblings curling up together.
And there they are with Mom.
I might have to make another paper chain countdown, because I don't know if I'll be able to make it to the day she becomes mine without celebrating each night I get closer.
So my uncle said, "Hey, Jess. You should take her."
This was over Christmas. I'd driven home, so it wasn't out of the question that I could pack her up like she was part of my Christmas booty and chauffeur her back to Maine, where she would live a good life roaming the large rooms of my apartment. I said I'd think about it. I'd been wanting a cat, after all, and this was a nice opportunity.
However, after I packed my car full of suitcases, presents, and my cousin Kait, who was coming back for a brisk mini-vacation before she went back to school for the new semester, there was absolutely no room for a cat carrier. I had to call my uncle and say there was just no way it was going to happen, as much as I wanted it to. I knew the cat would be fine. My uncle has a soft heart for cats--this sweet, white-footed one in particular--and it wasn't in him to leave her cold, lonely, and hungry.
And I was right. The cat became Socks, and Socks, who really is quite a pretty cat, got to know some of the neighborhood cats. And I think you can imagine what happened next.
Last month when I was home after our trip to Mexico, I wandered over to my uncle's house, and the cat flopped at my feet, purring. She was very, very pregnant. "She's huge," my uncle said. "It can't be long now."
And it wasn't. Just recently, Socks gave birth to three kittens in an elaborate and cozy birthing suite my uncle nested on the back porch. And a few days ago I finally got to see them, finally got to lay claim to which of the kittens I want for my own. It was a hard choice. All three kittens are ridiculously adorable. Two are brown tabbies like their mother--one of which even has the same four white feet as her.
The third kitten has a striped tabby tail, a white body with a few brown splotches, a tabby face, and--the cutest thing ever--a pink nose. And to top it off, the pink-nosed white kitten was a girl, and I love female cats. It was love at first sight.
It's not a good picture, but that right there is my kitten. That right there, nestled in my chest (the chest that everyone I've shown the picture to claims is not mine. "Sorry," Amy said last night, "you have a really nice chest and all, but your boobs aren't that big.") is the kitten who will very possibly be named Abbey--a name I've been chanting to myself ever since I decided it was time to get a cat. The Boy From Work has an alternate name--Eva--and I like that, too. I am coming back for the kitten in August, and if she has a more aristocratic, more sophisticated air to her, she might very well become Eva. But if she's more sassy than sophisticated, it's going to have to be Abbey.
That is her white-footed brother. He mew-mew-mewed when we picked him up. He was so pleased to be in the cup of my father's hands.
That's all the siblings curling up together.
And there they are with Mom.
I might have to make another paper chain countdown, because I don't know if I'll be able to make it to the day she becomes mine without celebrating each night I get closer.
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