Things in Erin’s Head
It seemed as though the straw had broken the camel’s back.
Jerry was miffed. “That’s it. I’m going to get a dog. Something that looks at me like I see dogs do on TV, with that look like they just LOVE you. I’m getting a dog that loves ME.”
This all came about because Jerry had been gone on business travel for two nights. When he came home, he showed #NotMyCat an abundance of affection and in return he got lacerated.
In a bleeding, multiple band-aid kinda way…
She may or may not have issued a warning (usually she gives 2-3 stern vocal warnings accompanied by a twitching tail before the claws come out) and if you’re concerned about the wild beast that shares my bed, you may have noticed that I have ZERO marks on my extremities. I’m just sayin’…
After a little heart to heart, Jerry and I reminded ourselves that the cat is indeed wild. When she came to us just over a year ago, as a 16 year old tortoise shell feline, she had just lost her primary human and was homeless. She chose to come live with us. We ranked her at a 90/10. Ten percent domestic. Ninety percent wild banshee.
If you follow my socials you get a few more inside peeks to #NotMyCat’s lifestyle, which is mostly sleeping on my queen size bed (she sleeps there for more hours than I do). And every time I catch it, I take a picture of her sleeping with her tongue out. That little pink tongue sticking out of her mouth in a relaxed droop both cracks me up and melts my heart.
And now, a year later, we’ve made some more domestication progress.
- We were not able to make her an inside cat. We failed at this miserably, and as long as we’re home we let her come and go as she pleases, with the exception of night. I won’t let her out under the cloak of darkness. She doesn’t like it, but that’s our current mutual understanding. I still don’t know where she ventures when she does go out… and I keep threatening to equip her with a kitty cam… but don’t hold your breath.
- She wants us to stroke her back every time she comes back inside. And she meows about it until it’s done properly. She wants her head scratched, and nails run down her spine until puddles of fur gather at her tail. Then she yelps at me when I swish the flying clumps off her hips. This is huge progress from the cat who wouldn’t let us touch her when she lived down the street. Petting the hips and tail is still off limits (as is the stomach, but I’m working my way in there with extreme caution). She also digs massage, cranio-sacral work, and reiki. Yup, my skills transfer to pets. XOXO
- She loves cheese. Forget tuna. Sometimes she’ll accept cat treats. Publix fried chicken is a close second. But if she hears us in the kitchen the little lady appears begging at the refrigerator. Because she knows that’s where the cheese is. American only. No cheddar. No provolone. No goat. No Monterey Jack. American. Yes, I keep a stash just for her. And no we don’t give her much, because we understand the dairy can upset her tummy, but she shows no signs of distress. Just an obsession for Boar’s Head American cheese.
- She’s my mini shadow. Duke was as much like a dog as a cat could ever be. While he was alive he greeted me each time I walked through the door. If I was in the shower, he was on the bathmat. If I was working, he was sprawled out on my desk next to me. Sleeping? Duke was curled around my hip nook. He was my constant companion and when I lost him I felt like a piece of my heart left with him. #NotMyCat doesn’t match that level of devotion, but she chooses to be with me more often than not. Unless I’m being loud. Or if she doesn’t like the TV show I’m watching. When Jerry was gone she was much more attentive and started following me in the bathroom. It was also while he was gone that she started sitting next to me on the couch, which used to be Cecilia’s territory before she passed five months ago. Now that Jerry’s back, couch time has remained part of our evening routine. The girl loves routines.
As I’ve shared before, this cat can’t be controlled. But we all shift and adapt and grow together. Jerry and I agreed that she’s graduated to 70/30 – Thirty percent love; seventy percent crazy Tortie. She is her own lady (#NotMyCat). And I love her.
Because it’s all about love…
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