Really smoky day, due to the province still on fire. This was the first time I’ve needed my inhaler in months - probably because the prednisone I’m taking for RA is also an asthma medication. So, what I’m trying to say is I did nothing (except a few dishes), and went nowhere .
But, you’ll think, She’s got a lot of words there for someone who’s out of breath, who did nothing and went nowhere.
Well, I actually did go somewhere - to my old and first blog, Tamar’s Day Off, where I found this little piece about Blackie, my cat, and his relationship with Howard, my husband.
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I have one cat. Well, actually, I should rephrase that. One cat has me, it’s not my cat, I am its servant. This cat, as far as I know, is the last in the line of kittens that my son’s cat produced over her fertile years.
My husband hates cats.
The particular batch of kittens that were siblings to this cat were born outdoors, when we lived in a rental that was backed by a huge amount of space, so much so that my husband kept a path mowed to a Back 40, which would have been a great place for growing pot if we were so inclined. Instead we used to it to get ‘back to nature’, to sit in a circle of mowed grass surrounded by tall trees and blackberry bushes that provided jam ingredients and vitamin C, and watch the planes rub their bellies on the tallest trees as they approached the airport a few miles away.
When the kittens were old enough to have opened their pretty blue eyes, Mama Cat decided it was time to bring them back to the fold and get us to help provide their food and lodging, for free, of course, because that was what families are for.
So after she made 4 trips to the maternity ward, she moved her 4 little treasures into the basement of our home. This was an old house, and the basement was drafty and cold, seeing as how there was an area somewhere under the back porch that provided access to cat-sized creatures but went unfound by me as I wasn’t about to go crawling around in spider dressed areas looking for holes. This didn’t help in taming these little feral creatures.
My husband really hates cats.
No matter how tall the box with the soft blankies, those damn furballs could crawl out and hide. Have you ever seen a dog chase a laser dot? Well, I was the dog and each kitten was a laser dot, and I finally gave up trying to tame them when the scratches on my exposed flesh became the main topic of conversation in the house.
So anyway, two kittens eventually became friendly, and were adopted. Another remained feral with no intention of ever leaving the wild, and then there was Blackie, who, although not yet particularly warm and cuddly, figured the life of a semi-domesticated cat was better than being chased by coyotes and raccoons every night. So he stayed.
I wonder if Blackie knew my husband hates cats?
Anyway, after a few years, this cat decided I could be trusted, so one cold winter’s day a couple of years ago, he figured he’d actually move in rather than just use our home for a quick Grab and Go Cat Food Restaurant. It didn’t take long for him to realize how much he had missed while shivering those cold frosty nights away, and he soon became trusting enough to use my face as a pillow as he snored through the night. I realized he was happy when I’d wake up in the morning with a black tail running up the length of my nose and between my eyes, not exactly a good way to start the day, but yet another reason to brush and rinse as soon as I got up.
Now, I don’t know if Blackie is trying to win my husband’s affection or not.
But why else would he have peed on my husband’s jeans last night? Was it an act of rebellion? Was it payback for being yelled at and thrown outdoors at 3AM just because he was mewing at his catnip mouse?
Or was he just trying to give Howard a little gift, so when he went to work he’d have a reminder of what he was leaving behind?
I wonder why my husband hates cats.
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