Life and Other Passions
I wanted to sleep in.
But I have a cat.
After numerous head butts, some bites, meows and loud purring Sam my cat sat at my face and glared at me.
“Sam, what is the point in getting up? No one cares if I get up or not.”
Those big golden eyes burned into mine. “I am not no one. I care.”
I got up.
My cat loves his litterbox.
He enjoys going toilet more than most anyone or any creature I know.
Going for a pee or pooh is a theatrical production starring Sam.
He announces the upcoming performance with meows, then launches into a tear around the house at fifty miles per hour, skidding over floor, scattering rugs, upending anything standing, artwork and paperwork strewed.
He lands in the litterbox and rolls in it. He digs and digs. Rolls some more. Goes out for another run around the apartment. Rolls and digs some more.
And then finally, finally, relief!
Finished off of course with more digging (fortunately no more rolling!) and a finale of running around the house and rearranging all that you put back in place.
He has a lot more fun going to the bathroom than I do.
But I’m not about to run around the house and splash in the pool (my litterbox).
One morning the cat came home with three stripes across his back, where there was no fur at all.
The skin had not been broken and the cat cheerfully wolfed down a bowl of food and retired to his favourite sunny spot for a nap.
Mom and I were extremely puzzled by this. We checked the cat over thoroughly, much to his chagrin as he tried to nap, but he was not hurt in anyway that we could discern, other than the three bare skin stripes.
Dad had gone off to work but came home shortly afterwards and burst through the door yelling “Where’s the cat?! Where’s the cat?!” He was absolutely freaking out.
My Mom told him the cat was in his sleeping spot, and that something unusual had happened, but she didn’t get to say what. Dad rushed to the see the cat. Much relieved he told us the story.
On the way to work, Dad’s car overheated and steam was pouring out of the radiator.
When he opened the hood, a huge mass of cat hair floated out.
The cat had been sleeping on the engine, and when Dad turned the car on, the fan belt assaulted the poor kitty and both were flung off. We can’t even imagine how this happened.
Cats really do have 9 lives.
Writing about my adventure with crutches, reminded me of an adventure with casts. A cat in a cast that is.
We had a tabby cat, one of many while I was growing up, and in those days, pets were free to explore the neighborhood and do whatever they pleased. Occasionally a dog might get loose too. No one was upset about it, usually.
Anyhow, our cat had an unfortunate encounter with a dog. Fortunately my Mom saw it and saved the cat. But the dog had broken the cats hind leg.
My Mom was only 4 feet 5 inches tall, but man, you did not mess with her. And when she wanted something, you were going to comply, or die.
The cat sported a cast for a long while, which kept us awake at nights. As we all know, cats love to torture their owners (they have a diabolical streak) and he would run up and down the stairs and across the kitchen floor, all night long. Thump, thump, thumpety, thump!
Now, back to Mom. She wasted no time finding out whose dog that was that committed this crime and the owners were going to pay the vet bill. And get a piece of her mind too.
The dog belonged to a world famous photographer that lived by the river near us.
With me in tow, we marched straight over there.
The woman, I presume it was the photographers wife, tried very, very hard not to part with any money for any vet bill. At first she invited us into her home and immediately regretted it, as Mom was not going to take any shit from her!
It was an awesome home. I’ll admit that.
I don’t know if Mom got the money but the cat got better. Eventually we all got some sleep.
Every day when I attempt to do my exercises, Sam my cat comes to help. I am doing various poses for frozen hips and legs, something Sam does not suffer from. At first I thought he just lacks understanding as to what I am trying to do, but I’ve changed my mind. He is a lot smarter than me.
He reminds me that we adult humans turn every task into work. We need to play.
As I do static exercises; hold a pose, much like Yoga, to coax my body back into alignment, Sam is busy undoing my best efforts. He jumps up on my back, bites my toes, fiddles with my legs, nibbles on my fingers, licks my face.
He wants to play. That is how he stays in alignment. Constant free flowing movement, ridiculous positions, contortions of upper and lower body going in opposite directions. Stretches that enable him to do the limbo under 2 inches into cupboards and under furniture. Energy that propels him up in a couple of bounds to the highest perch and back down in one.
He is trying to tell me something when he perches on my back during a thoracic stretch. When he bites my toes while trying to do a foot stretch. Nibbles on my fingers while trying to do the corpse pose.
I get visions of jungle gyms, monkey bars, ropes hanging invitingly over swimming holes. The mad splash from jumping into puddles. The thrill of scaling fences and climbing trees. Hop Scotch and skipping rope. Sam says, yeah! Be a kid again!
At the moment I barely survive static exercises. My hips and legs don’t yield much yet. For sure, I am not having any fun at this.
Meanwhile, purring madly, Sam is a pure delight of energy and fun, ready to mess up my best efforts of anything I claim as work. He has a radar for the mundane, the boring, so whenever I get immersed in it, he is quick to thwart it. Whether it be exercise, writing a report, washing dishes or studying, he soon disrupts it.
Come play with me! He grabs my pen and off he goes! A merry chase ensues that soon has me breathless and laughing (but not yet to the point of rolling on the floor – it takes me some time to get down there). When the game is over, he head butts me and purrs deep into my soul.
Oh to be agile like him – well, for a few moments of chase when I forget myself – that is the adult serious self, I am. Perhaps he is right, all my day should be full of merry chases and a little less of making everything a chore.
If you don’t own a pet, check out videos on You Tube of cats and dogs helping their owners do exercises to convince them they are not doing it right. They seem to know better than us!
My cat Sam has a favourite toy which he has secretly stashed at least 50 of them somewhere in the apartment. Every couple of weeks I buy him another one or two, and they also disappear in a short space of time.
He also has a good supply of pens, pencils and erasers, specially selected from my studio.
Like cats, we humans are collectors, we develop a fondness for an item and then have to have every possible form of it. There are collectors of toy pigs, cat figurines, spoons, books, match boxes, Santa Claus dolls, you name it, people will collect it.
But collections can begin because we forget. There in the store is an object that would be great to have, you buy it, and discover you already have it, maybe 2 or 3 times over already.
When you are young you can remember everything you possess, even the cans of food in your cupboard and paperclips on your desk. Not when you age a bit. Now I understand why I found 5 of any given item in my Mom’s house. Why I find the same in mine.
I went through phases of deliberate collecting of favourite things, like most people do at some point in their lives. Eventually you find a like minded collector and happily hand it all over to them. My collections now happen because I forget, or I am winter stock piling.
When you get older, winter stock piling is not just a quirk, it is a necessity. There are power outages, ice storms, illnesses that can prevent you accessing even the simplest of things. Stocking up on heavy items before the snow falls is a good idea, like kitty litter, and necessities like toilet paper. You have to be older to understand this. I used to think my Mom was nuts doing that. Sorry Mom!
The accidental collections are what bring me a good laugh. When I get home with that prized kitchen gadget, tool, art supply or toy and discover I already have it, I laugh. If it was an expensive item I can force a chuckle.
Fortunately I always find an eager recipient to relieve me of overstock, or I donate it to goodwill. As money gets tighter I do far less of what I call ‘excited shopping’ and try to stick to my list.
In all fairness to my forgetfulness, I remember items I use frequently. I think you only need to worry if you start buying toasters and refrigerators, things you use every day. Or bring home a new spouse or another kitty because you forgot you already have them, and thought it would be a nice idea.
One cat apartment is more a statement about who rules the dwelling as opposed to how many cats can abide there.
Be prepared for a complete makeover of your life, possessions and habits when you decide to become a one cat apartment dweller.
I am permitted to reside here of course because I provide the means, the food and creature comforts. I am rewarded for this with the cats rendition of love.
My black spotted cat dutifully wakes me at 4:30 a.m. no matter what my condition (that is irrelevant, everyday is a new day!) and makes sure he is my top, and only priority for the day (he will allow me my amusements when he chooses to nap). Hmm, now that I think of it, it is a lot like being married.
He delights me with all his antics, quirks and character. As my world of valued possessions is increasingly reduced to being tucked into drawers or at ceiling level, I am mesmerized by his boundless energy, enthusiasm and curiosity, or by his plain old bad mischievous behaviour.
He is certainly good for me, though I am frustrated by his persistence to do wrong (chew expensive art supplies, dig up plants, repeatedly relocating things on shelves to things on floors). People comment I am a much nicer person in the possession of a cat. In fact, many pushed me to get one after suffering me a year catless. My Mother used to plead with me to go to the gym for the same reason. Everyone benefited afterwards.
I must admit I had never heard the expression One Cat Apartment until I got my new cat. My lease limits how many people can live with me but not pets, or what kind. It doesn’t need to. No matter what the size of my living space, one cat is enough.
Even now while writing this, little four foot is into forbidden places, knocking over stuff and squeezing into areas I could never reach into. Creating havoc because I dare to ignore him. He never tires of this, he delights in it. It keeps me very humble and reminds me of what really matters in life. Things are replaceable. Sam (my cat) is not.
As Christmas comes and my house is devoid of decorations, for the same reason as when I hang my clothes on the rack to dry, within moments all is on the floor, I am forced to be content to have all that glitter within me, and shine from the inside out. Little cat is only 6 months old. Presently, everything is one big Christmas gift to Sam, to be unraveled, dispersed, played with and ultimately destroyed. The years will pass, cat will settle down and my concealed dormant Christmas tree will once again be released and brighten my room. I am not overly bothered by this. I am an enthusiastic little kid putting decorations up, and then procrastinating until July to put them away.
When he jumps up into my lap unexpectedly, looks up at me with bright golden eyes and purrs warmth and love into my heart, I know I have a forever blessing cradled in my arms. This is the true meaning of every day of my life, not just Christmas; peace, love and joy.
I should wish for everyone to have a One Cat Apartment.