How sweet, I thought. My baby senses I’m sick and she’s here to comfor…
I was stopped in mid-thought as my Nurse Nightingale kitten threw her body weight onto my foot, wrestling it under the covers and trying to bite through the comforter to subdue it.
“No, no!” I said, shooing her away. “Mommy’s sick. No play time tonight.”
I lay back and reached down to draw the covers up around my shoulders. Big mistake. The kitten leapt superman like in the air toward my extended arm.
“ROWR!” she announced with authority as she fell on it, battling it to submission.
“Hey, ow. Hey, stop that!” I said. “Go away. Go play with your sister.”
Surprisingly, the kitten heeded my advice and went off in search of the cat. As I drifted off into a medicated sleep I could hear them chasing each other up and down the hall.
WHUMP! A kitten landed squarely on my chest. Before I found my breath to say anything she was off and running.
But then, WHUMP! The older cat in hot pursuit (and a good ten pounds heavier than the kitten) also landed on my chest, knocking the wind out of me. They circled each other a few times on the bed while I gasped for air.
“Rowr, meow,” said the kitten.
“Mrow!” warned the older cat, moving closer.
“Both of you shut up and get out of here,” I wheezed.
The kitten went on the offensive and leapt over my thigh to swat at the cat. The cat saw it coming and jumped back, landing on my head. I shoved her off and she immediately darted for the kitten who meowed in delight and raced off the bed and back down the hall.
“I am going to throw you both out,” I muttered. “Just as soon as I can stand up without feeling faint.”
Eventually, after about three hours of wrestle-mania, both cats calmed down and decided they were ready for 73 sleep. The kitten, still young enough to want to snuggle at night, found her way into my sickroom and curled up on my left side.
This brought the cat sniffing around. Independent, she has never slept with us. But she has been very aware of late of the need to keep up appearances as being just as cute and sweet as the new kitten. Seeing the kitten happily snuggled beside me the older cat sighed and plopped herself down on my right side. I was now sandwiched between two cats both of whom I found to be unnecessarily grumpy whenever I decided I needed to turn or roll over.
But the game of “I can do whatever you can” didn’t end there. The kitten decided to give herself a bath, so the cat followed suit. Now I was surrounded, unable to move, by two animals making disgusting smacking and gulping noises in the dark. I tried to send mental telepathy to my husband to race in with the NyQuil® and knock me out.
In the morning I stumbled bleary-eyed and rednosed into the kitchen. My husband was whistling as he fixed himself breakfast.
“There she is!” he said. “How are you feeling? All better after a good nights sleep?”
I glare at him with one bleary, bloodshot eye. “We-aregetting- a-DOG,” I said through clenched teeth.
He frowned. “Why would we do that?” he asked.
“Because I need one to help me take the cats out, that’s why,” I said, slamming my cereal box on the counter.
The cats glide into the room, purring and rubbing against my husband’s ankles. “Oh, whatta matter?” he asked, picking up the kitten. “Is Mommy in a bad mood?”
The kitten playfully batted his chin. The older cat looked on, beaming. My husband reached down to scratch her under her chin.
Kitty Nightingales 74
Lessons in Stalking “Is Mommy being fussy? Yes she is. But who’s a good girl? Who are daddy’s good girls?” The cats have halo’s glowing atop them.
My husband kissed me gently on the forehead. “You’re still just feeling a bit under the weather,” he said. “Don’t take it out on the cats.” He grabbed his briefcase and waved as he walked out the door.
I perched thoughtfully on the edge of the kitchen chair as I considered my options. I know what I have to do. It will have to be a really big dog.
I’m going to have to take my husband out too.
-13-
Dibbs!
Having two cats is like having two children where you must never, ever, bring something home for one without buying the exact same thing for the other. Unfortunately, our cats are a bit on the greedy side. So even when we bring home something that is not for them, but rather for us, the cats still claim ownership.
For example, we brought home a new throw rug for the kitchen floor. Nothing fancy, just a basic woven throw with tassels on the ends.
We laid it on the floor.
“What do you think?” I asked my husband.
“Looks good,” he said. “I–“
A rumbling, rushing sound filled the air as two cats careened around the corner. Eyes bulging, ears laid flat, feet racing, they were neck in neck in the home stretch. Then, in a surprise move, the kitten took a Herculean leap, passing the cat and was the first to land victoriously on the new rug.
“Mrrowr!”she screeched, spread-eagled across the fabric.
“Rowr-rrrr!” the cat yelped, looking to us as if for a judge’s call. She screeched to a halt at the edge of the rug as if an invisible barrier protected it.
The kitten smirked as she pranced around the perimeter of the new rug.
“Well, it was nice for the thirty seconds we could call it ours,” said my husband. “I’m going to watch TV.”
I glared at his retreating back. Yet again, I was left to single parent the situation. Fortunately, I had the deft touch.
“You share,” I told the kitten. “Be a good kitty. Share.”
The kitten’s idea of sharing was to settle into the middle of the rug and begin cleaning her private parts. I decided parenting was overrated and joined my husband in front of the TV.
The kitten made herself at home, not moving for the next two hours. Our entering the kitchen didn’t deter her in the least, and she went so far as to let us step over and around her as we fumbled through trying to cook and set the table.
My husband, however, made the mistake of standing on the rug as he stirred something at the stove.
A rumble emanated from deep in the kitten’s throat.
“I’d move if I were you,” I told him.
“Why?” he asked.
The kitten walked over and glared at the portion of his shoe on the mat.
“You’re on somebody’s turf,” I said.
He looked down at the scowling kitten. “I pay the mortgage,” he said. “If I want to stand on my new rug, in my kitchen, no eight pound cat is going to stop me.”
I shrugged and went back to rinsing off lettuce.
The kitten nudged his ankle with her head. When subtlety didn’t work, she went for an all out head-butt.
“Hey, cut that out,” said my husband.
The kitten whipped out her claws and targeted his sock, which unfortunately had his foot in it at the time.
“Ow. Hey. OW!” He hopped off the rug.
“Us, zero. Cats, 391,” I said. My husband glared at me.
The cat moped in the doorway, watching the kitten nap on the rug. But older and wiser, she bided her time.
Per routine, I fed the cats at five o’clock.
The cat sashayed over and planted herself in front of the kitten’s dish. The kitten sat up, alarmed. The cat smiled, and then sank her head deep into the kitten’s food.
“Rowr, rowr, psst!” yelled the kitten. My husband and I came into the kitchen. The kitten stared accusingly at the cat. “Mrow, mow, mow!”
“Well, go get your food then,” I said.