Wednesday, July 30, 2014


At this very moment there is a faint but steadily intensifying
drifting from down the hall.

The cat is thirsty, but she has discriminating tastes, and is demanding water from the faucet in the bathroom.

She's driving me crazy, and it's not just because of the water.
All summer, in my daughter's absence, her cat has become my cat. All of the cat's strange little (and not-so-little) quirks that seem to delight my daughter (like their unnerving host/parasite sleeping arrangement) have been a sometimes amusing, sometimes hellish part of my daily routine for the past two months.

I've declared this the Summer of the Whining Cat.

She's constantly evolving, I've learned. Her latest adaptation is sunrise sensitivity. At the exact moment that the first of the sun's rays emerge from behind the mountains, the cat, who has, up until that point, been sleeping comfortably on my not-so-comfortable back/head/chest/arm, lets out a sudden "me-row?" and then, every three seconds, repeats the noise more and more urgently, until she is fed by a cranky me and bolts out the door.

Not cool.

So why do I still love that furry thing?

And why has she decided to give up the quest for water in favor of sleeping on the left side of my keyboard right now?

And why I am just typing around her?

Ugh. Cats.


  1. So. will Z be looking for a college where she can take her cat with her or will you become the permanent adoptive mother in another year? :)

    1. Uh oh. I think I see where this is going.