I leave for England. A weekend in London with my sisters and our "partners". A week in Dorset with my parents and relatives. And finally, 5 days in Paris with my hot boyfriend. Wow, I am one lucky lady.
But all I can think about is my cat. Last night, he came home covered in mud. He looked like a japanimation porcu-cat. And, the recently healed ear was cut open and bleeding. I gave him a bath. This sounds dangerous, I know. Especially if you've ever witnessed Mister and a vet. But he's actually not that difficult if you know how to handle him. I washed his fur with my "refresh" grapefruit scented shampoo, rinsed the dirt out, and by the time he was able to react, I was done. I squeezed him in a towel, and put him on my bed. It made a huge wet spot. I put the medicine on his ear, and we went to bed. He snuggled in my arms all wet all night long. Didn't move once. And when we woke up this morning, he was dry and his fur was so soft! I couldn't stop petting him! Before, I liked to snuggle and pet him because I love him. But now, I want to snuggle and pet him for the sheer pleasure factor. Is that shallow? There must be some argument here for the use of exfoliation & moisturiser, and shampoo and conditioner as a way to catch or keep a mate.
All of my life, I've loved the feeling of soft hair. It comforts me. As a child, I would "soft" and "twiddle" my hair when I was upset or to help me fall asleep. I still do it. Sometimes I fall asleep with my elbow pointing up and my hand firmly anchored in my hair. When I lived in the North, my favorite way to sleep in winter was under a gazillion blankets with the heat off and the window near my head cracked open. I would pull all of my hair up over the pillow and cover myself to my nose. Cold air makes your hair even softer. Then you can pull down one lock at a time and soft it until it gets warm and then switch for a new, soft, cold one.
So anyway, now I love my cat even more, in a different way, and I'm convinced by the statistics of this month that I'm going to come home and find him cold and stiff on my bed, dead as a doornail. The more I think that he's dead, the more I'm convinced I won't have a nervous breakdown when it actually happens.
1 comment:
When you were very little we had a freind called Mary Okin, who had long, black hair that shone in waves when she walked. You'd sit on her lap, suck your thumb and twiddle her hair. One day, we went up to the Okins to enjoy a barbeque with the rest of the village, to find that Mary had cut off all her hair. From that evening on, you never sat on her lap again, and a special friendship was gone forever!! Shallow? I don't think so. This is deep-rooted in childhood memories. Mary Okin's hair reborn into Mr.'s fur!
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