I am having a bit of a complex, so bear with me here as I explain myself.
You know the cats?
The cats I swore were going to be in the barn, just as soon as they were old enough? The ones that were destined to be hearty mousers, country cats, tough cats that dart through the snow, sit on top of fence posts and watch over the homestead. The kind of cats who take on raccoons and live to tell about it, with one less eye or one less limb.
Cats who will whoop a dog’s ass and then turn around to take on a porcupine.
Remember that plan?
Well, somewhere between forgetting to name them, trying and failing to keep them off of the furniture, carting their feline asses to the vet for a $100 special shot, hollering “dammit CCCAAATTT” from across the room as they come screaming up from the basement, ricochet off the easy chair, do a triple flip landing on the love seat and then flinging their limber bodies, feet first to attach like velcro to the curtains…
…oh, and their developing love affair with the pug…
I have forgotten to let them outside.
I have decided it’s much too cold. Much too dangerous. There are too many hazards, too many big birds out there. Not enough fluffy blankets.
I have forgotten I am not a cat person.
I have lost my damn mind.
And up until now I have been at a loss as to why.
Why the strange, cat catering behavior? Why do I have a litter box in my home? Why do I tolerate cat hair on my stretchy pants and anything with fur to ever sit on my shoulder? Why is there a cat on my briefcase?!!!
What have I become?
I have been struggling with this question for months, making excuses for the hairy creatures while I search my fluffy soul for the answer.
And yesterday, while perusing through the family scrapbook, I found it.
But before I reveal the truth, the way, the light, I must warn you, what you are about to see is not for the faint of heart…
…for various reasons.
I hope you’re sitting down….
Ok. Take a deep breath while I apologize for the alarm. I do hope you are not traumatized in any way, but I have to say, scary and revealing as it is, I am so glad someone documented my naked, cat squeezing behavior.
Because it helped me recall how I used to love the creatures.
Their twitching tails, pointy ears, squishy bodies and soft coats–just like a real live stuffed animal. I couldn’t get enough. I’d chase them around this very house, grab them up and, well… I was too young to remember, maybe the episode is hidden somewhere deep down in my sub-concious…
…I would squeeze them…