We have three cats. I don't know how this happened. I didn't anticipate this years ago, especially since I had a strong allergy toward cats, which I found out about one weekend during college when I was visiting a former roommate who had a cat and I rubbed my eye and I ended up in the emergency room with an eye so swollen my contact lense popped out.
But I can't imagine my life without these guys. Scooter is almost 14 years old, and I feel about this in a similar way as one who watches the aging of a parent or close friend and it makes one a little nervous. One day, I realize, he will die. He's slowing down. He slips a little when he jumps up on the bed or the windowsill, and my daughter is even suggesting getting him some of those steps to put up against the bed to help him get up there. This is a difficult reality, one that I never anticipated.
We each have our own "favorite"-- so no one is really left out. Scooter, the old guy, is Larry's buddy. Larry took to him more quickly than we did (he came to us as an adult-- Scooter,-- well, Larry too...) He defended him when Scooter wouldn't come out from behind the piano when we first got him. He believed that someday Scooter would come to love us, and he has. He defends him when it is Scooter's hair that spots the carpet, when it's Scooter's hairballs that we discover in the corner of the living room, and when it's Scooter who scratches the furniture (we know this because he's the only one who isn't de-clawed) Larry is the one who Scooter trusts and will climb up on his lap and nudge his hand, demanding a head-rub.
Carmel is Sarah's favorite. He was the first one to move in with us when we thought it was time that Sarah had a pet; something more cuddly than an aquarium of fish that had the tendency to die often. (On a side note, we did have one of those "googly-eyed" fish that we named Lazarus because he was always floating on his side at the top of the tank and then would mysteriously come back to life when we came at him with the net...) Carmel was a farm cat, son of a mother who "got around", and the owners were so ready to get rid of all her offspring that they put him into Sarah's plastic pumpkin when she came to their house trick-or-treating. Slick move. After Sarah had him in her bucket, she fell in love. Who were we to rip him out of her adoring arms?
But Dobby is my buddy. I got to name him, and he's named after the severely co-dependent house elf in the Harry Potter series. He is Carmel's half-brother, born to the litter that came after Carmel (like I said, Mama "got around." Nobody ever talked to her about birth control) We got him when he was six weeks old, so tiny you could fit him in the palm of your hand. He was so tiny we were afraid that Carmel or Scooter would eat him, so I carried him around most of the time those first few weeks, and I think that's when we truly bonded. After awhile, as any good mother, I had to let him have a little room to breathe and trust that he would, in fact, not get eaten. Turns out that Carmel's "maternal" or brotherly instincts kicked in with Dobby's arrival. I think he sensed that they were somehow related, or maybe he just felt sorry for the squirt. But if Carmel had a wing, he would have sheltered his little brother under it. He was always by Dobby's side, snuggling up to him, watching out for him.
Now that Dobby is bigger than his big brother, they still hang out together, chase each other through he house, and swat at each other with their claw-less paws. They're quite entertaining to watch. But Dobby and I have our ritual. When it's time to go to bed, I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Dobby knows. He comes to the door of the bathroom and waits outside for me to finish. Sometimes he gets confused. If I go to the bathroom early in the evening, he still comes to the door, thinking it must be time for bed. When he realizes it's too early, he'll go back and take a short nap on the bed until I go to the bathroom again. When it's time, he waits outside the bathroom door, and when I come out, he joyfully trots off to the bedroom, looking back to make sure I'm behind him and takes a frolicsome leap onto the bed, falls down and rolls over onto his back, waiting for his nightly belly rub. He is so darn cute, you just can't resist! When I crawl into bed and read my book, Dobby walks up alongside my body and nudges my book to get my attention. He falls down again, in the space under my armpit and snuggles down. Sometimes he looks at the book himself and we discuss the plot. After awhile, he gets a bit bored and so he gets up and gives me a chest massage. He is very focused in this activity, and I haven't figured out what the point is, but he doesn't like to be interrupted or he walks off in a huff.
When I'm done with my book and ready to turn in finally, I spend a little time rubbing Dobby's neck for awhile, which he thanks me for by rubbing up against my face and nuzzles for a bit. When I turn out the light, he settles down by my leg in a ball and breaks out into a loud and meditative purr. I fall asleep to the sound of his contented motor.
My cats are very participatory members of our family. They endured all those moves we made between 2003 and 2005. They made their displeasure known. They expressed their opinions on the various houses we lived in. They are good at making their displeasure and discomfort heard. We learned they don't like to travel in the car, especially over the long distance from Pennsylvania to Nebraska-- we were worried that Carmel might not survive that trip, he was literally CATatonic for three days, and we weren't sure he'd snap out of it. But he is ok now, and doesn't seem to bear any residual trauma from that event.
After a long day at work, there is nothing so soothing as curling up with my Dobby and accepting his unconditional love and adoration. Life is good.
But I can't imagine my life without these guys. Scooter is almost 14 years old, and I feel about this in a similar way as one who watches the aging of a parent or close friend and it makes one a little nervous. One day, I realize, he will die. He's slowing down. He slips a little when he jumps up on the bed or the windowsill, and my daughter is even suggesting getting him some of those steps to put up against the bed to help him get up there. This is a difficult reality, one that I never anticipated.
We each have our own "favorite"-- so no one is really left out. Scooter, the old guy, is Larry's buddy. Larry took to him more quickly than we did (he came to us as an adult-- Scooter,-- well, Larry too...) He defended him when Scooter wouldn't come out from behind the piano when we first got him. He believed that someday Scooter would come to love us, and he has. He defends him when it is Scooter's hair that spots the carpet, when it's Scooter's hairballs that we discover in the corner of the living room, and when it's Scooter who scratches the furniture (we know this because he's the only one who isn't de-clawed) Larry is the one who Scooter trusts and will climb up on his lap and nudge his hand, demanding a head-rub.
Carmel is Sarah's favorite. He was the first one to move in with us when we thought it was time that Sarah had a pet; something more cuddly than an aquarium of fish that had the tendency to die often. (On a side note, we did have one of those "googly-eyed" fish that we named Lazarus because he was always floating on his side at the top of the tank and then would mysteriously come back to life when we came at him with the net...) Carmel was a farm cat, son of a mother who "got around", and the owners were so ready to get rid of all her offspring that they put him into Sarah's plastic pumpkin when she came to their house trick-or-treating. Slick move. After Sarah had him in her bucket, she fell in love. Who were we to rip him out of her adoring arms?
But Dobby is my buddy. I got to name him, and he's named after the severely co-dependent house elf in the Harry Potter series. He is Carmel's half-brother, born to the litter that came after Carmel (like I said, Mama "got around." Nobody ever talked to her about birth control) We got him when he was six weeks old, so tiny you could fit him in the palm of your hand. He was so tiny we were afraid that Carmel or Scooter would eat him, so I carried him around most of the time those first few weeks, and I think that's when we truly bonded. After awhile, as any good mother, I had to let him have a little room to breathe and trust that he would, in fact, not get eaten. Turns out that Carmel's "maternal" or brotherly instincts kicked in with Dobby's arrival. I think he sensed that they were somehow related, or maybe he just felt sorry for the squirt. But if Carmel had a wing, he would have sheltered his little brother under it. He was always by Dobby's side, snuggling up to him, watching out for him.
Now that Dobby is bigger than his big brother, they still hang out together, chase each other through he house, and swat at each other with their claw-less paws. They're quite entertaining to watch. But Dobby and I have our ritual. When it's time to go to bed, I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Dobby knows. He comes to the door of the bathroom and waits outside for me to finish. Sometimes he gets confused. If I go to the bathroom early in the evening, he still comes to the door, thinking it must be time for bed. When he realizes it's too early, he'll go back and take a short nap on the bed until I go to the bathroom again. When it's time, he waits outside the bathroom door, and when I come out, he joyfully trots off to the bedroom, looking back to make sure I'm behind him and takes a frolicsome leap onto the bed, falls down and rolls over onto his back, waiting for his nightly belly rub. He is so darn cute, you just can't resist! When I crawl into bed and read my book, Dobby walks up alongside my body and nudges my book to get my attention. He falls down again, in the space under my armpit and snuggles down. Sometimes he looks at the book himself and we discuss the plot. After awhile, he gets a bit bored and so he gets up and gives me a chest massage. He is very focused in this activity, and I haven't figured out what the point is, but he doesn't like to be interrupted or he walks off in a huff.
When I'm done with my book and ready to turn in finally, I spend a little time rubbing Dobby's neck for awhile, which he thanks me for by rubbing up against my face and nuzzles for a bit. When I turn out the light, he settles down by my leg in a ball and breaks out into a loud and meditative purr. I fall asleep to the sound of his contented motor.
My cats are very participatory members of our family. They endured all those moves we made between 2003 and 2005. They made their displeasure known. They expressed their opinions on the various houses we lived in. They are good at making their displeasure and discomfort heard. We learned they don't like to travel in the car, especially over the long distance from Pennsylvania to Nebraska-- we were worried that Carmel might not survive that trip, he was literally CATatonic for three days, and we weren't sure he'd snap out of it. But he is ok now, and doesn't seem to bear any residual trauma from that event.
After a long day at work, there is nothing so soothing as curling up with my Dobby and accepting his unconditional love and adoration. Life is good.
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