I’m a cat person. I love the low key nature of a cats affection; I especially love our cats, who don’t use a litterbox and who no longer sleep on top of my head. Lately I’ve found myself waking up in the middle of the night quite a lot and on my way back to bed I’ve been known to seek out a cat just for a little pet therapy before I go back to sleep.
Last night it came up that Michael and I have been together almost a DECADE which doesn’t seem possible-and that means Moses is almost 7. I’ve fostered tons of cats and kittens, and a long time ago I made peace with the short term nature of my relationship with them. So when Hannah called me from school one day and told me there were girls at the playground trying to sell a litter of kittens, I drove straight there and confiscated four tiny babies from some middle schoolers who were trying to give them to a bunch of 8 year old kids, and quickly got to work preparing them for adoption.
I’m not sure when or how the decision was made that we were keeping one, but somehow we ended up with this:
We named him “kittles” and when Michael heard the name he vetoed it immediately and we settled eventually on Moses. We moved with him three times, including once across the country, a trip during which Mosey would leave his kennel and snuggle me on the back seat of the van while I was laying prone, doing my best to adhere to “strict bedrest” orders in my 6th month of pregnancy.
He’s always been attached to Avery:
Once we thought we were going to lose him when he ate a poisonous lizard but then he pulled through in true warrior fashion.
And now he’s king of the yard, our personal 6 am alarm clock every single day, and still a bedtime companion. Being a farm girl, I’m not one to get completely attached to animals, but I have to say, the longer we know Moses, the more I can’t imagine life without him. Even though I break out in hives whenever I pick him up.
The cats don’t know what to think about this new world upstairs. Moses has taken to pacing the rooms up there each day for a few minutes after he comes in from The Evening Hunt, howling his protest at being subjected to a break in his familiar. Before we closed up the crawlspace access, he’d hole up in there with the insulation, mewling for hours before finally he’d bound down the stairs and into my lap. I wish I could understand what it is about the second floor that bothers him, and why he feels like he must suffer through this nightly tour, loudly, instead of just I don’t know, NOT GOING UP THERE.
I love the cat. I do. We bought him with us cross-country, the only kitten to worm his way into our world out of at least 20 that we rescued and nursed to health out in California. When we arrived here in Florida, it took only three days for us to become foster parents again, this time to a litter of kittens born under my (allergic) daughter’s dresser. Three litters later, we have two cats-Moses, who I mentioned above, and Daisy, who wandered into my mother’s yard a while ago and thought the dogs were for playing with and not so much running from. Lucky Daisy, someone intervened before his execution, and since we have no dogs and Moses fell instantly in love, here we are. Daisy doesn’t sleep in the bedroom much though. He’s very fat, and I suspect getting up the stairs is an ordeal for him.
Back to the cat. I love him, my Handsome, my Lovely Cat, my Mosey. He’s been sleeping outside a lot during the summer, and now he’s in the bed with us almost every night. And so I find myself awake at 4:15 a.m., wheezing, sniffling, sneezing, poring over my homeopathic texts because Benadryl will put me out for much of tomorrow if I take it this late (early?) in the game.
I’m allergic to dogs too, and mold and dust and dust mites. I’m allergic to the heater but not the air conditioner. Go figure.
Tonight though, it’s the cat. He’s killing me, and I cannot bring myself to banish him from the bedroom, even though I’ve read whole books on inflammatory diseases and how much havoc they inflict on the body. I know I will walk like a zombie tomorrow and perhaps I’ll make a defiant trip to the grocery store for junk food because I DESERVE IT since my husband snores upstairs while the cat languishes in the bed and I wouldn’t even BE awake right now if they hadn’t played video games till 3 a.m. and woken me up which of course woke the cat up who naturally needed to rearrange his position on the bed after inching up toward the pillow for a few good (dander-releasing) strokes on the head.
Did you see how I managed to blame my dander allergy on late night x-box? I truly am a master.
Mosey is home. He has a urinary tract infection, and will be on a special PH-Balanced diet forever. He’s on anti-vertigo medication and antibiotics. They said we were lucky to have brought him in for the lizard thing, because the urinary thing would have killed him had we not caught it so early. Which is sort of bullshit. But whatever.
He looks bizarre. His head is cocked to one side, as if he’s got a question on his mind. He’s moving better today, but if he tries to run, he simply falls over sideways. Once, he made it all the way up onto Hannah’s bed today and spent most of the day under her covers. But the next time he tried to jump up there, he fell over onto his back. He may get better, he may not. We’re not letting him outside, obviously. he spent no less than 3 hours at the window today, 2 paws up on the sill, staring out at the life he used to have. Poor kitty.
In other news, this afternoon we watched a few more episodes of Lost Season 1. Hannah was in her room watching Lost too, so when I heard the bang and felt the house shake, I assumed we need to turn the volume down on the show. Then I was pissed because the noise woke A up and she started crying. After we argued for a few seconds about who would go get her, Michael started up the stairs. Her little voice got louder and louder, as if he were bringing her down, exceot he wasn’t up the stairs yet. What the hell? “Holy Shit!”, he cried as he rounded the corner of the landing.
There was ToddlerA, standing at the top of the stairs, crying for someone to come get her. She climbed out of her bed, fell to the floor, got herself up and organized, retrieved her suckie and reserves for each hand, and then set out to find someone to rescue her.
And I just don’t know what to say about that. She’s getting to be a whole little person now. I’m sad and excited and proud.