This past weekend I found myself with the greater population in the sense of being housebound and relatively bored with the extra time. Typically my weekends are full (fun full I called them) as being a single dadda with things like swimming, church, library visits or movies. I suppose I am blessed to utilize this time with more writing and resting as my weeks are still luckily filled with work and the like. And then I look over at Nigel and Whitney and think maybe I should use some of this covid given time to hone my cat whispering skillset. Cracking a cat brain might be beneficial to all man and womankind.
Speaking to Whitney on a subconscious level doesn’t really interest me except to enquire why every time I allow her to sit on my lap she manages to insert one of her nails into my resting genitalia at the slightest sound of noise off in the distance, usually Nigel creating useless hijinks. Besides this she is your average house cat: comes when called (sometimes), seems to appreciate her humans (allows pets and cuddles) and is grateful for food.
Nigel, on the other paw, is the enigma some may find quite interesting though I usually write her off as a jagoff. Underlying deep in her kitty psyche must lie some dirty truths, no purrs intended. Her expressions reek of condescension and her mannerisms would make the Queen of England look like a street tramp. She is elegant, sure, but her pomposity breaches other realms of the galaxy from whence she most definitely came.
The planet she hails from considers biting as a form of saying hello. These felines OCD traces are off the typical charts. Touch them wrong (or even at all) and you’ll wish you never met them. I kind of wish I could step foot on their mothership to be honest, especially when I master the art of the whisper. Maybe I could make a real difference and help out their future owners if another one escapes E.T. style like Nigel did. Can she phone home? Maybe I’ll leave my phone in her litter box tonight and check the caller history in the am.
Nigel sucks. There, I said it. I’ve threatened leaving her outside but the crazy thing is 99 of 100 times the door opens, though she’s poised annoyingly on the bottom step, she rarely will attempt a jail break. And the icing on the soon to be birthday girls cupcake? The times she does jump out the door she will stand on the cold concrete and become a bloody statue. No bolting. Not even a few steps down the driveway. Such a chicken. I’m terrified she will bolt, mind you, so I don’t belittle her with strong jeers as I should. My focus is grabbing her matted ass coat and tossing her like a living lawn dart back into the ol’ homestead. And I do, clinking points like a pinball machine for every random shoe she ricochets off of.
Why haven’t we eaten her yet instead of buying chickens? I don’t rightly know. But one thing I will be clear on is she is one of the family. We bleed the same blood. Cat blood runs deep. I can adore her fluffy milky white socks just like I can adore Lexis’s dimples. We will all grow old together and we may never die. These are facts, folks. Because no matter I don’t speak Catonese we all purr when stroked. We all rub up against you if you call our name. And yes, only Nigel will bite you willy nilly. That I cannot prevent.
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