Having just returned from my parents' house, where a 1970 Bordeaux complimented pork and potatoes, and strawberry short cake drenched in whipped cream put the cherry on top of a fine late springtime meal, I am presently relaxing in my recliner, diet coke in reach, ready to blog my butt off.
As I collected my belongings, preparing to leave, I noticed Obi, my old white Himalayan cat, sitting in shado
ws underneath some cabinets, atop a short stack of magazines and unopened envelopes. In his teens when I purchased my condo back in October '04, Obi was, my parents and I decided, too old to become accustomed to a new home. Besides, at that point she still had PJ, our since deceased collie, to keep her company. Obi and PJ busted the myth that cats and dogs can't get along. He was the yin to her yang. Or something. But now his companion is up in doggy heaven, and tonight, watching him sit there with his these-days-typical grumpy mien, I decided that often times, I feel like an old cat; all I require is the comfort of another willing to lick me when I'm dirty and leave me alone, or maybe rub her soft fur against me, when I'm peevish and disagreeable.
Obi is by no means alone. A month or so ago, my mother bought a 10-week-old white golden retriever. It's from Europe. The golden retrievers from Europe are white. Why don't they just call them white retrievers? But anyway, Einstein is his name, and like the white-haired mad scientist, he is full of energy, humps legs, and poops everywhere. The introduction of Einstein to the family didn't sit well with Obi-cat, who recently confided in me that "Einstein purloins my attention! Now he gets all the dinner scraps. Nobody pets me anymore because of that insufferable dog."
Though he whines ad nauseam that Einstein is the root of all his woes, I believe he simply still misses PJ (Pumpkin Junior, selfishly named after my first doggy, by yours truly, because I was unprepared, unwilling, to completely let go).
Obi used to purr like a Porsche at the first sign of affection. Eyes closed in contentment, mouth intermittently opening to issue forth his hiccup-like pseudo-meow, Obi would ensconce himself in your lap and arch his backside like a wave while petted from head to tail. I noticed within the past couple months that Obi doesn't purr like that anymore, not the way he used to, especially when Einstein or Georgia, my new kitty, are nearby. If he so much as sniffs the scent of one of "those usurpers" (his words, not mine), the purr machine becomes inoperable. At one point, Obi either could not control the urge to purr, to announce his happiness to the world in his utterly annoying, yet endearing way, or he simply chose not to censor his feelings.
How that cat used to hum his satisfaction.
Loss, however, has changed the once affable feline. Sometimes, the effect of loss is a 
temporary kind of deal. It's eventually accepted as part of life's vicissitudes, and one moves on, once more capable of letting the simple pleasures pick up your spirits, like how Georgia reaps so much enjoyment playing with a plastic bag, or chasing the puppy, or tempting the African Grey parrot, Peanut, who is quite used to being the dominating presence of the household; or the way Einstein sprawls out, belly on floor, limbs splayed in an X, completely exhausted after running full-bore from the bird for twenty minutes; or, of course, tasty cat treats.
Obi doesn't seem to have adjusted just yet. It's sad to see the ubiquitous grumpy face stapled on his face, to hear the silence as you pet him. Sometimes he purrs, but mostly he stays stoic, pensive, maybe melancholy. It's hard to tell. Because cats are lazy, and laziness can easily be misconstrued as discontent.
But like I said, he doesn't purr too often these days. And that's a shame. Why couldn't he have been rendered purrless when he slept in my bed and woke me up at
There I stood, belongings in hand, having just bade farewell to my parents. I walked across the kitchen, stepping over a tuckered out Einstein along the way, kissed Obi on the forehead, and petted him head to tail. The old cat nodded, blinked, and started to softly purr. As I continued to show my affection, he purred louder and louder, until finally he reminded me of the young, happy Obi-cat I used to know.
Annoyed by the thunderous purr, I hurled him across the kitchen.
Hearing the panicky rwraaaarr warble through the air, and the eventual thump against the wooden floor, I felt a teardrop meander down my cheek.
Ah, just like the good old days.
OK, it didn't happen exactly like that. But purr he did, if briefly, in acknowledgement of my affection. Despite Einstein's close vicinity. Is this a sign Obi-cat is accepting not only the loss of PJ, but also the undesired presence of the energetic puppy, Einstein? Or did he just happen to smell dinner and hope by purring I would offer up some leftovers? We may never know.
Cause cats don't talk. Well sometimes they do, but my therapist said not to mention things like that to other people.
Oh God, what have I done?!
1 comment:
"Annoyed by the thunderous purr, I hurled him across the kitchen."
Thanks, now I have Mountain Dew all over my keyboard :-)
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