So we went and got a cat last Saturday. Found her at the Humane Society and she was all sweet--not at all like the mean cats I've met over the years--and snuggled up against us and begged us to take her home (she's 5 years old and her previous owner died). So, despite the fact that I'm not a cat person by any stretch of the imagination, take her home we did for the following three reasons: 1) She's cute, 2) She's a Bengal, so she doesn't bother the handsome yet sneezy Boyfriend/Roomate's allergies, and 3) She was, as a Humane Society cat, much cheaper than one would normally pay for one of her brethren. We stripped her of her atrocious former name and christened her Lyra, after the main character in the Phillip Pullman kids' books (double geek alert!) It's pronounced like the old Italian currency, not like Tyra Banks, because even though they used the latter in the movie version of The Golden Compass--which thoroughly butchered the spirit of the books, by the by--that's how Boyfriend and I both read the name in our heads. This is her:
Awww. Cute little spots and everything. Anyway, it's been a mixed bag of emotions since then since, as I said, I'm NOT a cat person which means I don't understand how they work and they don't understand how I work and that causes some stress. I had a mild panic attack as I was going to bed on Saturday night because first the little darling pees on MY side of the bed and then hides. Sure, she was frightened, but come on! I took it as a personal affront. Then, as I nestle down into the inadequate spare sheet/blanket combo we've used in lieu of the laundering linens, she starts prancing all over my nightstand and trying to eat the hyacinths and STEPPING ON MY GLASSES. I NEED THOSE. I DON'T HAVE VISION COVERAGE RIGHT NOW.And right away, that turns into HOLY SHIT THERE IS A CAT IN MY HOUSE AND IT'S GOING TO PEE ON EVERYTHING which quickly morphs into I'VE TOTALLY LOST CONTROL OF MY LIFE AND P.S. THE SUN WILL NEVER COME BACK OUT (yesterday, update: after about a week of gray sleety misery, the sun did indeed come back out.) So, I hyperventilate a bit while Handsome/No-Longer-Sneezy coaxes me back into sanity, and the next morning I wake up with a crying hangover. No joke. My sinuses are so stuffed up that it feels like I'm recovering from three glasses of Three Buck Chuck (which is a lot for me.)
Little Lyra spent the night in the bathroom, and that's where she's stayed ever since, with supervised time to explore the rest of the apartment that she earns with good behavior. Over the last couple of days, with Kitty confined safely away from my glasses, I've grown rather fond of her. She's been sitting in my lap, purring like a motorboat, drooling like a St. Bernard (we recently realized she only has about six teeth,) and I'd enjoyed these times. It was nice having another thing in the apartment. I learned that "Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow" means "I'm happy to see you, please pet me" rather than "I'm going to pounce on your head and pee in your hair." We were coming to an understanding, and I was all set to write a nice, fawning post about my new kitty. Then, twenty minutes ago, we tried to give her some amoxicillin drops for the tooth she had pulled back in jail, and it was all "MMMRRROOOWWW..HSSSSSSS!!!...GRRRRRR!...SCREW YOU GUYS!!!"
Back to square two.
1 comment:
Ah, cats. She is a beautiful girl, by the way. Living with cats is like inviting tiny, half-crazy people to live with you for at least a decade, but you end up becoming really fond of them and their weirdness. At least, that's my experience (and I'm a dog person, too).
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