Here’s a run-down of the kitties who have flooded in, in celebration of my 23rd birthday. I am luckier than I could have ever imagined.
(WARNING, SOME OBJECTIONABLE LANGUAGE AHEAD!)
(DOWN THERE!! vvv)
From Suzanne, I received (among other pleasantries), a book about Cats and Kittens.
This last page rang true for me last night, watching my borrowed kitty eat his last meal as a fully-outfitted TomCat.
Finally getting him nuetered means that he’s soon to depart– Monday, at this point, and now I am home listening to Law & Order alone, back to blogging about cats without a physical cat present.
This makes things that much lonelier.
The laundry is blowing around in the living room– washed in the bathtub and stretched across the blinds’ draw-cords. The flowers Roy brought me are beginning to lose their petals, breezing around and landing on the hardwood where I’ll sweep them later, once I slug out of bed and go about my house-co-habitator-lady-friend duties, as usual. No kitty to get in the way, to claw at my feet as I walk past, to stretch in the sunshine on our dirty green chair while I grumble at him, trying to sit there myself.
This morning, carless (well, we are at least car-less in the functioning-car sense of the word) and unspeakably hip, we loaded the kitty onto Rothrock’s longest bicycle– Surly’s The Big Dummy, and took flight.
Yowling all night and morning (little meow cat wasn’t allowed to eat after 6 pm yesterday), he calmed down immediately once upon the bike, curling up in pleasure, just watching the sunny streets of Huntingdon roll by. (“The largest hallway,” I commented to Jake, his thoughtful driver.) This led me to comment to Molly– kitty-cat’s impending owner, the one I thought of on that final page of Suzanne’s book– that “if he ever gets a farm cat girlfriend, she’s liable to be a bike widow as well”.
Once at the stern Dr. Bowman’s office, I sat with my houseguest on the bench next to me and watched the other pets file in– a nicotene-mustached man held the door open for me and proclaimed that we had twin cats– I examined the similarly-black kitty in his carrier while he explained that his cat “sneezes”.
A hipster couple entered and immediately asked my cat’s name.
“Kevin,” I answered, giving the name that Molly is most excited about.
“Our cat is named Leonidas,” they said.
“Sweet,” I replied.
Then came in a large dog, looking like what I can only imagine as the love child of an enthusastic golden retriever and a big dumb Great Dane. He lunged against the kitty crate and his owner gave a wan apology, stating, “He’s used to cats, we have one at home”. Kevin-kitty was not reassured by this knowledge, and cowered in the corner, showing his luminescent teeth.
Several more small dogs and, eventually, a thin woman carrying her cat in a box lined with blankets came in. “I’m here to get my cat put to sleep,” she whispered, sounding spooky, sad.
“Oof,” we all collectively sighed.
Finally, Erica Quinn and her cat Kevin were called back, and Dr. Bowman’s vet-tech took him downstairs after a brief examination, the poor kitty never again able to impregnate a young lady cat or swagger his manhood around the house in an impressive manner. Tonight while I am at work, Jake and the Big Dummy will return to the ivy-walkway-ed office to retrieve this, our borrowed cat.
Last night I dreamed of these,
I had found a kitten by the roadside and I begged that Jake photograph me with it, which he did with one condition, “You know we can’t keep it,” he reminded me.