Weekends lately have been about the cats. Not all about the cats, but as I'm paid for feedage and careage while my friend of two cats heads home to family I've been highly focused.
Until I finally realized I could lose the intensity regarding their psychological well being. What I realized this past weekend was: The cats are catlike. When cats are catlike they are like cats. Cats are cats and don't need Kitty Mozart Genius Meow Einstein videos. They don't care about the fate of the Democrats in the November election or post-colonial literary theory. They're not even feminists!
Cats like string. Cats like empty boxes. Two weeks ago I brought them a double-bag from Trader Joe's. Two brown bags, the kind with handles, one inside the other. A total hit! First there was the cat-need to explore the vast cave of bag.
The vast cave of bag worried me. What if Willow and Squirrel couldn't make their way back? Come back, dear Willow! Oh return, sweet Squirrel! I was projecting my frailties onto them. Their whiskers somewhat resembling giant roach antennae soon peeked out along with little cat noses.
By this past weekend the double-bag was a landmass with rugged topography like pleateaus or steppes. During the week of becatment it had collapsed and couldn't be crawled into; was a stiff version of a lumpy couch.
There was debate rousing and hissing between Squirrel and Willow as to which was allowed the bag. I suggested a timeshare but they prefered to catlike argue and catlike reach stalemates.
What the cats want from me is simple: Kibble. Water. I'm not sure how much they connect me with a clean cat box but they get it anyway. There is always petting of cat necks and cat tummies, plus playtime with the nearly chewed-to-oblivion burlap mouse on the end of a long string. I swing it and the cats leap. I'm the song that makes the whole world sing.
Squirrel and Willow are cats.
Image courtesy of Jonathan Morse, poet, photographer, academic, Hawaiian.
