November 25, 2002
It is well known that an awful lot of bloggers are cat lovers. Dean Landsman does a great job of proving that fact. Like so many of us, he's a pushover for sweet helplessness – soft purrs, big eyes, pretty faces.
My cat’s a hellcat. Appropriate. Her name is Calli. Sounds like Kali. Appropriate.
She’s not pretty; her markings are asymmetrical, and a friend once commented that she looks like Groucho Marx. Except that she only has half a black mustache. She’s smart. Has taught me her language. She has identifiably different sounds that she makes when she wants to eat, or play, or cuddle. She has me trained.
She’s fat. Too fat. That’s what the vet told me.
She likes to sit on my lap as I type. Except she’s too fat. Gets in my way. I throw her off; she climbs on again. Persistent. Spoiled.
My first cat was one I got when my kids were little. Saffron was mellow yellow, and it was the 60s. He slept with the kids and let them do anything they wanted with him, but he only tolerated me. Eventually, when it was just me and Saffron living together in an apartment, he deigned to sleep with me. After he got old and sick and I had to have him put to sleep, for years after, I would swear, in the dark late at night, I could feel him jump onto my bed and settle in at my feet.
Calli doesn’t sleep with me. She’s a hellcat.
I rescued her from a small cage in pet shop when she was 6 months old. She was so big and the cage so small that the only place she had to sit was in her litter. I’m a softie too.
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Old Comments (1)
mare on 25 Nov 2002
From your previous entry as well, now I know why I loved my cat so much.