Happiness is sleeping next to mama.
Happiness is taking up 83% of the sofa.
Happiness is not being poked anymore.
On Saturday’s grammafest, gramma and I went to her former big town near her old home, and we did a bunch of errands. One of them involved dropping off some things at her older son’s house, and while we were there, he gave me his catchenal castle, since his cat had decreed it unworthy. I thought, you know, it was worth a try with my boys, right? Free and all.
I think they liked it a little bit
Because my life is incredibly busy, I spend a fair amount of time on the chair, working on Alice or knitting or both.
I am visited very often by the boys. Here’s Picasso, helping me read blogs.
I am not fat. I am cute. And also I like to hug her arm. A lot.
And here’s Matisse, attempting KSL.
Poor Picasso has had a hard week this week. Which meant, by extension, that Rebecca had a bit of a sleepless week too.
He’s not ordinarily a needy cat, unless he’s busy being a depressed Saran Wrap, and he hasn’t been depressed like that since November or so. This week’s problems were midwestern thunderstorms, which are much louder than they are on the east coast, and he spends hours wedged into my elbow, whimpering and mewping and shaking all over and trying to bury himself into my arm. It’s all I can do to hug and rock him for as long as it takes until he settles down and we fall asleep together.
He does the same for me when I need it.
How did I ever manage to live without the Matisse? Certainly I’ve never knit without his able and expert assistance.
He certainly takes his duties of holding down my knitting books and magazines for me very seriously.
Come on. I know you can do it. Tell me what’s going on in his furry little brain as he performs his duties.
The flowering going on around here has been due to the gramma, who inspired the whole thing with a giant bonquet of peonies. OMG. Do you know HOW GOOD these smell? I wish I had smell-o-vision, just so I could recapture the smell of them for myself.
Have you given up yet? Have you come to see that indeed these flowers are mine? And are still alive? And in one place?
Where o where could I have put them, if they are still catchen free?
Here’s a better picture. Figured it out yet? Where are these flowers? One month and the boys still haven’t destroyed my plants. I call that a WIN.
No? Here’s a hint…. You’ve seen this window before.
For a catstaff, the most difficult bit of reality, arguably, is the fundamental incompatiblity of plantly goodness with catchenal goodness.
Don’t get get the boys wrong.
The Matisse loves plants. Especially flowers. Pink flowers. With lots of petals. Very much! Hug them and squeeze them and nuzzle them and dig them and call them George. Yes! And of course, strew dirt all over the floor, as much square footage as possible please, and as much dirt rubbed into his fur, please please! Mmmmmmmmmmmmm dirt. Dirty dirty dirt with happy drool!
I wondered if he was so happy because he got to have all the fun of making a giant mess without the pain and drudgery of cleaning it all up.
Probably not. He’s not evil nor is he capable of such machinations.
Unalike, perhaps, the Picasso.
Who, on the other hand, prefers cut flowers. In tall vases. To rub against and lean upon. To accidentally knock over. For the fantastic keeeeeeeeeerash! Again! Again! Again!
And then there’s me. I love flowers, and prefer them upright and intact. Oddly enough.
Would I be able to combine the two? Could plants and catchen live in harmony? Would I be pushing my catstaff luck?
Six. Six months is a long time. Isn’t it? I miss her intensely at times still, even to the point of tears. She was a good soul, a good cat, a very good baba. The best baba I knew.
I don’t know if the decision was perfectly timed or if I went about things the right way. It doesn’t matter. It was what it was. She was my little girl, and she wasn’t going to let go easily, even as sick as she was.
She was seventeen. I wish I could only remember her as we lived life together, and not think of her last few weeks. Of our last few weeks.
She was my little girl. And I was her human.
And when I miss her most, I think of her and I nestled together in bed.
It never felt more right than in these moments, as she pressed into me and as I held onto her and drank in her presence, the sensation of her soft warm wildly purring body pressing against mine.
This picture was of us together in my first apartment, in 1998. I can’t believe that was nine years ago already.
I just… I wish it had been more. That she had been my little girl for ninety years.
I would not trade a moment of our lives together for anything. She was my best friend when I was small, and she was my roommate as an adult. I am still finding ways in which she had had a part in my life. A thousand little opportunities to feel the loneliness, to feel the loss. To feel what she meant to me.
To feel the ache.
But still I hold the emptiness to my heart and cherish it, because that is the price.
I love her as intensely as I did six months ago. The tears fall as freely. I know how lucky I am. How so lucky I am.
To love like that.
The Picasso, he is three years old today! He had to give himself his birthday present this year, but he was very happy with his selection of Cascade 220 superwash in perwinkle.
Because his catstaff was a little too busy snorfling and being stuffed up, the Picasso threw himself a little party as well, meepmeepmeeping at birdies and bunnies that were tantalizing him on the other side of the window.
The Matisse, when reached for comment, said, “bowl!”
The Picasso was also treated to catstaff kissies and tummy rubs, and supplied with barely adequate amounts of kibble. Treats to be provided with dinner. Oooh!
Here’s to many more, zaiyde.
The triangular garter stitch headscarf? Is a bigger triangular garter stitch headscarf! Too exciting.
Hey, anybody watching this season’s 24? Holy moly, the Kiefer, he is such a glutton for punishment! Like Chris, I’m re-watching vintage 24 episodes, and this week season 2 predominates. Ahhh, the Kiefer, who can ever tire of him? Not I!
But I digress.
To spare you a progress picture which would be almost but not quite exactly the same as yesterday’s, here’s a picture of the boys.
Aren’t they amazing little creatures? Isn’t Picasso ever so subtle in his claiming ownership of the larger and older Matisse? In twenty days exactly, Picasso will be three years old!
And he’s definitely the head of the household. Or at least he thinks so. Or is that knows so? I wouldn’t know. I’m just the catstaff.
One that feels some better today, but given the fact I got into bed (albeit reading and typing on Benkei) before 10 pm? Maybe not all that much better yet. So tired….. But tired? Is better than pillow-breathing. I’ll take that.