Perverse Creatures

My parents never allowed a fur-bearing pet. Not one. Fish, birds and turtles were allowed. My father once built a beautiful dog house, but no dog followed. He has kept dogs in his later life, sometimes 4 or 5 at a time, and he takes in rescue dogs. I guess my mother didn't care for fur-bearing pets. She's never owned one. My dog-loving dad, however, does not care much for cats. I grew up hearing all manner of nasty cat stories, and I knew I didn't like those hateful creatures.

I was 19 when Ex said, "Let's go to the SPCA and get a cat." Said I, as cute as a bug at 19: "I hate cats." Ex: "OK, I'll go by myself." I love cats. While bubbling on the subject matter for this post, I tried to count back in time by name and recalled appearance. I believe I've enjoyed about 50 of them on an intimate level. But few have been held at the level of affection I feel for beloved Dylan and Virginia Woolf. They are sharing a very special time of my life - the time when I just may finally self-realize, the time when I'm the closest, so far, to finding the way.

But they are damned perverse. First there is the hair thing. VW is completely black. She sheds like hell. Her individual hairs are coarse and spiky, short and straight. They cling to and poke out from every light colored article of clothing I own, not to mention the fawn colored sofa, light ceramic tile floor and the windowsills. Dylan is beige and white. He sheds like hell. His fur is long and wispy, finer than frog's hair. It clings to, and weaves itself into, everything dark. His is the kind of fur that even intertwines with carpet fibers. The home dudes sometimes come in from a frustrating job to say, "Damned cat, Limes. Fur like your Dylan." They have recommended I buy a $50 carpet rake with which to terrorize my carpet and Oriental rug twice a week before thoroughly vacuuming. Right, dudes. I have time for that.


Above, you see Dylan sniffing Badger toe. Dylan is a water-seeking freak - a feline divining rod. He demands a clean bowl of fresh water every morning in terms no one could mistake, cat lover or not. But his best sources are the toilet - of course - any dripping faucet, or the betta fish home. When I turn off the shower, I am attacked through the curtain - he wants to get to the last drops emanating from the spout.

VW goes for small objects. Pieces of anything. If I remove the cap from a bottle, it should be put in my pocket and not on the counter. Make the mistake of putting down a pair of earrings? Um, make that "an" earring. In one room of my home, I keep several miniature quilt samplers as wall decor. She removes the pins that affix these to the walls, if there is any way she can reach them. We have a little game. I buy pins to keep the quilts on the wall. VW removes and loses them. I buy lots of pins and bandages. She leaves pins scattered on the floor. Below you will see the pink quilt flapping.


Then there's glass, as in the glass dining room table . . . . oh, come on, I wouldn't attempt to feed you there without first taking the DustBuster to it! On every window in the place, there is a horizontal hazy stripe stretching from one side to the other. They appear to spend a good deal of time with their noses pressed against the glass. Wet noses, temperatures outside in triple digits. You get the picture. Sometimes I have to use an abrasive sponge to clean up the windows!

But the very worst area of perversion is plants. Dylan is a lifelong plant destroyer. He's never seen anything green that he didn't want to chomp. When he joined VW and me at my home, he taught her the pleasures of "salad" very quickly. She's a good learner. I am a woman who likes to keep plants and flowers. I am a woman who is stuck on stupid because I keep buying and they keep chomping.

It happens that on Friday night I bought Gerbera daisies at Fresh & Easy. Gerbera daisies please me and these were gorgeous. When I went to bed Friday, I closed these flowers in a bathroom. I took them to work with me Saturday and brought them home Saturday night to be closed in the bathroom. I asked the Badger if he would point his killer camera into my daisies because the contrast of the deep, vivid orange against the brilliant green takes my breath away. I wanted it memorialized in a photograph, not a "pitcher". This morning after walking, I treated myself to a sit-down at the computer. My church service is a cup of the best coffee and a little blogging. I had given the daisies a little drink of water and they were draining in the sink. Limes blogged and sipped. The place got pretty quiet . . . . . yep. Petals knocked off, leaves in shreds, wet soil everywhere.

In my ears right now: The sound of my own voice screeching, "Damned animals."

Something that charmed me: Virginia Woolf, at least, has the good grace to cringe when I bellow.