Figures the first post of the year would be about cats. Sheesh.
I’m not a cat person. I’m just putting this out to the Universe and anyone who will listen. It’s true. I am not a cat person. I love my cats because they are my cats, and I love animals in general and cats are animals, but I’m not a cat person. I’m a dog person. I am a bird person.
I love birds. I adore birds. And dogs I really adore dogs.
And the Universe hates me, which is why I have two cats, one bird, and no dogs.
The furry felines currently in residence are one of the Crash and Burn twins (Freya, the fish whore) and Meow (she named herself. Truth!)
My morning rituals include trying to get dressed with a cat. Trying to drink coffee without cat fur in it. Attempting to enjoy a cat fur-free breakfast. And finally, leaving the house without tripping over a cat and breaking myself.
I’ve managed to master that last one by shrieking, “MOVE IT, FURBALL, BEFORE I STEP ON YOUR HEAD!” This not only alerts the cats to my intentions, but it also alerts my nephew that I’m about to head out the door. Or I’m rushing to the bathroom.
Getting dressed with cats in the room is always a joy. Especially when that cat is Freya Fish Whore. She is of the impression that all of my clothing must be covered in fur and small holes that she makes herself. Sometimes those holes happen before I don the article of clothing, other times…
Sometimes the holes are not in my clothing, but in my skin, which she seems to enjoy touching with her claws while I’m doing my best to quickly cover and protect myself with clothing. She is sneaky and will investigate exposed flesh with little regard to privacy. She is shameless.
She also texts Tam when I’ve set the phone on the bed before the screen goes dark. It’s one way I’ve found to distract her while I’m donning my unmentionables. The sensitive screen will happily accept her input (which is more than I can say it does for me) and send the missives to my love who after a few moments of puzzlement will realize it is an actual text from a cat and stops thinking I’ve just had a stroke.
Recently, I was sitting at my computer with my love on Skype, when I started feeling a little snack-ish and grabbed the package of dried cuttlefish from the fridge. Yes, it’s is preserved and does not need refrigeration. In this case, the fridge is more of a large, cold, combination-less safe. As I sat enjoying a few pieces of stinky fish jerky, I was visited by Freya Fish Whore.
She sat at my feet, her eyes wide and fixed on my snack. MY snack. “Give her a piece of it,” Tam said. After a moment’s thought and the sharp pain of a single claw hooked into my leg, I decided to give in and held out a piece. Apparently she enjoyed it because the next thing I knew she was all over my business.
“No. Go away. You already had fish.”
“Get down, beast. This stinky mess is mine.”
“Holy Bast, your breath smells good! What I gotta do for more fish? Huh? I let you have Floofy Belleh.”
“We do Floofy Belleh every morning, so… no. My fish. Go away.”
“What if I let you do TWO Floofy Bellehs.”
“Ha! You’ll do Floofy Bellehs for dirty socks, you shameless hussy. Go away.”
“What I gotta do for fish?”
“How about no cat fur in my coffee for a week?”
“For one lousy piece of fish? No deal.”
“Fine. Go away.”
“No fur for an hour.”
“Nope. Two days.”
“Ha! You think I’m cheap!”
“Something like that. This sure is tasty – OW! – cuttlefish. Too bad you can’t have any.”
“I hate you. Ok. One full day no fur in coffee.”
“Ok, one day no fur and a Floofy Belleh.”
“Have some fish.”
“Hey! There’s fur in my coffee!”
“We never said which day no fur. Thanks for fish.”