Like it? I wrote that inspired little number last night while holding Ziggy's two front paws in my hands and forcing him to shake his tail feather like some sort of circus poodle. He pretended to be appalled, but I think loved it, despite himself. He complied joyously until busting free from my grasp, meowing, "What the fuck, Momma," dashing under my bed, and seeking protection from the dust bunnies. I could hear him telling them how cool his momma is.

My cat must think I'm insane. I'm the big biped who squirts mite-be-gone in his ear canals, feeds him, and plays with him, so he loves me, but most of my actions leave him completely bewildered. I'm a constant source of embarassment to him.

When I enter my apartment, the first thing I do is peer into the room and say, "Kit-ten? Where's the kit-ten! THERE'S the kit-ten!" I don't know why this one-sided game of hide-and-seek has become a daily ritual for me, because I there's never any doubt where he'll be when I come home. He's always on the foot of my bed, looks up from his nap, blinks, says "What the fuck, Momma," and goes back to sleep.

I don't think Ziggy will ever know his proper name. I call him "Kit-ten" (pronounced just like that ... none of that lazy "kit'n" garbage; my cat is an iamb), "Cat," (when I'm angry,) or, most often, "The Sweetest One."

"Where's The Sweetest One? Where izzee? There he is! Are you The Sweetest One? You are The Sweetest One! Come here, my Sweetest One." I can count on my hands the number of times I've called him "Ziggy." Not that cats answer to their actual names, anyway.

I am becoming One of Those People who talks to her cat in baby-voices and buys him little gifties. My concern for myself grows, while Ziggy, on the other hand, remains unfazed, maintaining a healthy level of aloof feline indifference. Well, we'll see how he changes his tune when his new Kitty Tunic and matching tam-o-shanter arrive in the mail from Burberry. It's a full Burberry ensemble! He'll love it.

I'm kidding about the ensemble. (It's really Hermes.)

Not only have I been dancing with Ziggy, but for him as well. Lucky kitty, he's the only living creature who consistently sees me naked these days, and man, does he get a show. He's learning all my favorite songs and showtunes as I belt them while showering and getting dressed. We're planning to go on the road with our own little cabaret act, Ziggy and I, singing the songs of Cole Porter and The Velvet Underground.

Don't worry, Zigs, you'll travel in style. None of that cat-carrier crap for my little prima donna.

"What the fuck, Momma?"

Where does he learn this language? I have to stop letting him watch "Fight Club" with me.

It recently occurred to me how absurd it is to kiss one's cat. Ziggy appreciates cuddling and scratching, but when my big smackers come to rest on his forehead, he returns the loving gesture by rolling his big golden eyes and saying, "What the fuck, Momma?" He must be nearing adolescence. Soon, he'll be asking me if he borrow my (non-existent) car and stay out past curfew.

(Actually, I'm not too worried about the last part. Ziggy has proven himself to be quite the agoraphobe, sprinting away from the door whenever it's open, avoiding contact with the outside world.)

Kitties. They grow up so fast.

"If there's a Volume IV," you think, "there must be a Volume I, II, and III, no?"

How right you are. Smarty!

~ 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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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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