We spoke of how Lulu hasn’t been the same since her dangerous bout with food poisoning, but a good spanking can still get her going. How Puck is a huge brat who knows more than he lets on and always manages use his charming chirp to get what he wants. How, despite having no teeth and a crusty disposition, Joey is one helluva good-looking sweetheart. How Angel is a real champ for working to overcome her abandonment issues, and has finally learning to trust.

During a lull in the conversation, I said, “Guys? We talk about our cats a lot.”

My friend, Troy, nodded cheerfully and said, “Uh-huh!” Then he and Steve inquired after Ziggy. Specifically, they wanted to know if his poo had normalized, or if it still harbored that infamous stink that, I suspect, was the leading factor in the harm done to the ozone layer over the past year. I proudly answered that my kitty’s intestines have apparently figured shit out, (no pun intended, wokka wokka,) and his poo no longer makes me pull the covers over my head and yell, “Jesus CHRIST, cat!”

Being a cat owner is a bit like being a soccer mom. It’s a subculture of sorts of story-swapping and friendly competition. We all sit around and talk about weird things our cats have in common, and make sure to mention what special quirks our own little gremlins have that make them unique, and better than anyone else’s cats.

But being a cat-owner, at this point in my life, seems a far sight better than being a parent FOR REASONS INCLUDING, BUT BY NO MEANS LIMITED TO:

1. I can swear at my cat, and no one will look at me askance, unless, of course they have some stupid aversion to swearing in general. If you’re ever on the phone with me while I’m cuddling Ziggy, you will hear me frequently interrupt my own sentences with interjections such as, “OW! You FUCKER!” as he digs his claws affectionately into the flesh of my thighs, my ass, my feet, my tits. Seriously, I have a little skritch mark in my cleavage right now. Fucker.

2. So, yes, they might scratch, but kitties are fuzzy! Children are not.

3. Cats do not want you to send them to college, and are less expensive in general than children.

4. You can fit many more kitties in an SUV than you can fit children. Handy! And, I’ll bet, when given some shin guards and taught a few skillz, a soccer team comprised of cats would be a terrifying force to be reckoned with.

5. On the flip side of #4, cats don’t expect you to drive them around everywhere, and, in fact, usually hate it if you do so. But it’s good to know that you can fit a lot of them in an SUV should the necessity arise.

6. If things just aren’t working out between you and your cat, no one will blame you, and you can arrange to get rid of your cat without too many people thinking you’re a terrible person.

For example: My friend, Faye, had a cat named Sneezer, and a boyfriend named Jason. When Jason and Faye first started seeing each other, Sneezer was just fine. He’d cuddle up on Jason’s lap, nuzzle against his legs, the whole lovey deal. But when Jason started spending the night at Faye’s, and taking up a lot of her time and attention, Sneezer got upset. He decided he did NOT want a step-daddy, and demonstrated his dissatisfaction by pissing and shitting all over everything, all the time. Faye was heartbroken, but decided to give Sneezer to her mother and keep the boyfriend. Had Sneezer been a child instead of a cat, it’s doubtful that I would have received an invitation to Faye and Jason’s upcoming wedding in last Monday's mail.

As nice as kitties are, I think she made the right choice. Jason may not be fuzzy in the same way as Sneezer, but he doesn’t poo on Faye’s couch. Not to mention, he has sex with her. Right, then.

I’ve noticed that fellow cat-owners will fawn over kitties and kitty stories, the same way that people flock to new parents holding their infants, or coo over the kiddie snapshots that coworkers carry in their wallets. Cat-ownership offers a weird source of identity, a way for people to find common ground. I mean, I don’t mean to be an asshole, but you people LOVE the Kitty Chronicles. I could post some incredibly heart-wrenching entry, and it wouldn’t be uncommon for someone to pipe up, “Um, great. Brave. Whatever. Thanks for baring your soul, and I hope you get the brain-splatters out of the upholstery. Now … about Ziggy …”

It’s cute, really. So is my cat.

·· Ziggy is incredibly good-natured, has never had a snippy day, and never gets mad at me. The word “catty” does not apply to my precious.

·· While he’s delightful, he’s also quite dim. For example, he likes to attack my legs while I’m walking, and his method strikes me as so daft, all I can do is laugh at him.

What he does is, he runs up in front of me as I’m trying to pass, stands on his hind legs, and baps me ridiculously with his front paws as if he’s either trying to gingerly pound out a fire, or simulating the action of clapping erasers together. It’s so fucking stupid, it's adorable.

·· He is the only cat I’ve ever known who doesn’t vomit regularly, making me suspect that the toxic poops of of his babyhood were just side-effects of him learning to deal with what has turned out to be a truly formidable digestive system. He’s only puked once since I’ve known him, and it was kind of my fault. I had fed him a soft food that he didn’t like, and much of it stayed in the dish until after it had gone bad. I’m apparently of the “clean your plate” Depression-era school of thought when it comes to feeding my cat, and I didn’t want to get rid of the food until after he had really tried it. It made him sick. I’m a bad momma.

·· Zigs and me like to play rough. A favorite game is one that I call “Stalk the Alpha Cat.” Starting in the kitchen, Ziggy sets his eyes on me as I sit in the only chair in my apartment, and begins skulking stealthily across the floor. If I make any sudden movements or look directly at him, he wusses out and pretends he wasn’t doing anything at all.

Yesterday, I decided to see what would happen if I pretended not to notice him so I could find out if he would actually pounce, imminent flesh wounds be damned. He did the skulky thing for a while, but once he got within a yard of me, he lost all concentration and trotted up to rub his face on my toes. It was sweet, but revealed such an utterly complete extinguishing of his hunting instincts that I didn’t even have the heart to mock him.

·· When he sits in my lap, on the aforementioned Only Chair in My Apartment, he spends at least 10 minutes burrowing strangely before settling on a position. Sometimes he wedges himself between my left thigh and the arm of the chair. His favorite spot, it seems, is with his haunches on my lap, and his front paws on my chest, so that he can stick his little snout in my face and purr at me. I think that’s how I got the cleavage-skritch, but it’s such a sweet mode of cuddling, and I just look at his blinking little face and say, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

·· As I told you before, I was recently Maid of Honor in my friend’s wedding. As such, I had to throw her bachelorette party. Now, you must understand, this was a genuine white wedding at which, I believe, I was not only the lone non-Christian, but also the lone supporter of the much beloved Potty Mouth/Mind combination. I didn’t have too much difficulty toning down (except for that one time when I slipped and said “goddamn” in church), and had a wonderful time. My point is, the bachelorette party had to have a very low raunch factor. This meant no creative use of condoms, no embarrassing panty games, no random phalluses.

Still, just in case, I included among the possible party decorations a couple of packages of drinking straws with little removable rubber penises slipped over them. Perhaps needless to say, I didn’t use them at the bachelorette party. They remained unopened until I brought them home, where Ziggy sniffed them out and tore open the package.

Last night I saw him jogging across the apartment with a straw in his mouth, like a little retriever playing fetch. I wish I had had a camera. Ziggy loves him some penis straw.

·· He does that cat-as-loaf-of-bread-with-head thing where he lies down with all his paws under his belly, (loafasana,) but he’s got a big, flabby gut and looks more like a lumpy braided challah than a svelte loaf of white. So inspired was I by his Rubenesque silhouette, that I did the following silly sketch, entitled “Cat as Challah”:

This is not what my cat looks like. This is sketch is to my cat as Lifetime biopics are to Martha Stewart. This is a sketch based on a true cat, labeled for clarity. And he is lying on the braided rug of artistic license.

My cat. Like the celebrities featured on MTV’s “Diary”, you think you know what it’s like. But you have no idea.

Okay, maybe this next part should wait for another entry, but I just found these pictures the other night, and really want to share. Look how little I was when I was little!

I love this picture. This must be, like, Christmas 1979. I’m the blondie on my pipe-smokin’ daddy’s knee on the left, and I’m sorry, but I’m pretty fucking cute. Not to mention, I was obviously working the sexually androgynous look before Kate Moss was even invented. Hip.

Look at my sister’s little brown shoes! I remember those shoes, and my dad’s pipe tobacco-scented shirt! My mom totally made the overalls my sister is wearing, as well as the stockings hanging on the fireplace. You can only see my dad’s stocking in the picture, but each of us has one, with our names embroidered along the top. So very sweet.

Next:

I grew up in Massachusetts, where we get lots of snow in the winter (and often through April), and we use it to do cool things like ski and sled and build and THROW! Anyway … that’s me in the blue, my sister in the pink, atop a giant snowdrift next to our driveway at our parents’ first house. I can’t tell if we’re actually having fun, or if we’re both kind of anxious to go inside where we can remove all of those insulating layers and freely move our limbs again. I think that’s a Strawberry Shortcake hat I’m wearing. I hated that hat. And the BOOTS! What, am I going fly-fishing?

This one:

… is a Brian Froud creation called “The Maiden,” and I swear to you, aside from the long hair and the shiny wings, that’s almost exactly what I looked like when I was little. This is from an oracle deck I have, which I bought just because of this particular card. (And, okay, I admit, I’m fond of pretty, magical things, even if they are of dubious validity. They’re fun. Froud makes me happy.) According to Froud, The Maiden is a card signifying auspicious beginnings, birth, growth, joy, and hope.

(Please bear with the following self-indulgence. Or just move on, because this is the last part of the entry, anyway. I won’t be mad.)

“From her crown of light to her star-jeweled toes, the Maiden is pure joy. She is the face of the force that generates growth throughout all the worlds.

When she smiles, troubles melt. Where she dances, flowers spring from the ground and burst into bloom. It is from the Maiden that the pixies learned the dance that keeps the otherworld turning – and probably our world, too, for that matter. She is newly born every morn, and she carols her plangent song of growth for all beings in all the worlds. She sees the magic and the light in everything and takes endless delight in it.

Yet even though the Maiden is so wonderful and powerful, she is a child and she needs to be cared for, nurtured, and cherished. When she takes the form of a flower, someone must see that she gets enough water and sun. Whenever we look after something new or young, we are caring for the Maiden, whether she is in the form of a blossom, a sapling, a baby, or a new idea. She, in turn, is likely to switch between joyfully and gratefully receiving such nurturing and insisting on an independence that she really isn’t ready for yet. She knows, deep within herself, what she needs to do and become, and she moves toward this with the directness of a child.

The Maiden also has the simplicity and curiosity of a child, seeing with unclouded eyes. She has an openness to life, love, new things, and new experiences. Every moment with her is an adventure, filled with playfulness and hope. Innocent, she is awakening to and learning about the world. Much of her learning comes with laughter and silly jokes, and she trusts what life gives her.

Every time we allow ourselves to be filled with joy, we become more like the Maiden.”

- Brian Froud’s Faeries’ Oracle, Jessica MacBeth

Sure. But I’m mostly grown-up now. Meaning, I can TOAST to the very auspicious beginnings I represent!

Here’s to auspicious beginnings! And my cat!

That was so completely dorky.

Love,

Kelly

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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