Not a conversation with my cat
October 3, 2007
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Because I just don’t need any encouragement…
A slight deviation from the usual series.
Bagelmouse: Cat, do you want to come over here and help me tell the nice people about the last couple of weeks?
El Mog: No, sorry. That would take valuable time away from being mental.
It’s very difficult to have a conversation when the two parties aren’t speaking to each other; because when you have nothing pleasant to say it’s just better to say nothing at all. The cat is driving me insane. And I don’t mean cute-insane-oh-look-isn’t-he-sweetly-bonkers, I mean absolutely fucking crazy. About a week after I got back from holiday – you’d expect him to act up in the days immediately following his 10 day abandonment to the cuddles of the catsitter, but that would be to stick to the norm – he started up a new routine. Another in his range of habits and routines that he develops overnight and sticks to religiously for several weeks like he’s been doing it all his life. He started sleeping in his cat carrier, which is tucked away in the bathroom cupboard, as if to deliberately shun me. To be honest that’d be fine – means I can sleep without a lump on the bed – apart from the bit where he’d come into the bedroom at 6am. (Close the door, you say? HA. No earplugs in the world can stop the high-pitched meowling that he keeps up until I crack.) Then he’d do this:
- Jump onto the bedside table. Kick off the tissues and strepsil packets (I was still ill when this started), and occasionally drink from the glass of water
- Walk onto the bed, where he’d have a noisy and flailing wash
- Walk back onto the bedside table
- Walk from the bedside table onto the pillow, prompting me to push him back off and issue a stern "nooo"
- Walk along the edge of the bed and meow at the window
- Walk along the rest of the bed and try to get on the pillows again. Another push from me and another "nooo"
- Walk over me and onto the bedside table
- Repeat all steps until I crack and put him outside. I mean outside. Not out the bedroom door. I mean outside.
A week of this. The night before I went to Spain, he spent most of the night on the bed making ever numerous attempts to sleep on the pillow. I spent most of the night waking up when I felt the pillow sink under his vast weight. At 3.30am I woke to find he’d got under the duvet and was curled up next to my knees. This is a cat who enjoys nothing more than rolling around in the garden where cats and foxes crap! (Trust me; a fox left me a ‘present’ on the doormat this morning.) When I left for Spain I took the pillows off the bed and stashed them in the wardrobe.
It didn’t break the pillow obsession. Now he’s sleeping mostly in the bottom of the fitted shelves and making frequent forays onto the bed to walk across my head as he tries to get onto the pillow. This is where I lay my face, for fuck’s sake. I haven’t had an unbroken night’s sleep in my own bed in two weeks. It’s simulating what it must be like to have a baby, only without the expectation or even the hope that said baby will ever get older and stop waking me up every fucking hour. I wouldn’t mind, but when he steps onto the pillow he gives me a look as if to say ‘yeah, I know you don’t like this. I’m pushing the boundaries. And my luck. And the last of my lives. Yeah. I’m going to walk onto this pillow now with my dirt encrusted paws and you’re going to have to wake up properly to stop me. Yeah. I hate you’.
And he keeps sitting in my printer tray. I now have a halved onion resting on it. It seems to be the only thing that’s stopped him attempting to break my printer, my computer table, or both.
And this, is why we are currently not talking.