One other thing I did over this mostly unproductive weekend was hang out with my boys a lot. For those of you who don't know them, here they are:
Alex, the lover:
Darby, the mighty hunter:
I don't understand people who don't like cats, or who claim that cats are boring and don't have personalities. Most of these people, I believe, either
A) have never lived with a cat;
B) never took the time to really get to know the cat they lived with; or
C) had the unfortunate experience of living with a cat who was also an asshole.
Yes, cats, like people, can be assholes. So can dogs. For those of you who hate it when people anthropomorphize animals, you'd better stop reading now, because I do it a lot. Having lived with cats and dogs all my life, I've seen a wide variety of personalities, quirks, and mannerisms in them. I've known cats and dogs who are more interesting and have more diversity of feelings, moods, and behaviors than some people I've encountered. They are individuals. They are, each of them, unique.
Take my boys, for example. Alex, I've had since he was about six weeks old. He's my baby, and I, with no question, am his mama. He adores me. He follows me everywhere. As I write this, he is sitting two feet away, gazing at me through half-closed eyelids. (Both cats, and most cats, spend much of their lives half-asleep--not totally asleep, as many people believe. It's like this semi-permanent meditative state they've perfected. Admirable.) Alex is a cat casanova, a total lover. He's laid back, clever, sweet, charismatic, and cute, with just a little bit of a naughty streak. And, he has developed a variety of distinct facial expressions, ranging from utter and obvious contempt (usually reserved for his brother) to wide-eyed innocent curiosity. Alex's human movie star equivalent: Johnny Depp. (Does this mean I have a subconcious wish that Johnny Depp would adore me and follow me around with sleepy eyes? No, that's completely ridiculous--that wish is NOT subconscious.)
Darby, I got when he was between two and three years old--no way to know, exactly. He was a cat of the street. (Admittedly, the street was in Westerville, but still.) He's gorgeous, tough, and schizophrenic. He's incredibly smart in some ways, and not that bright in others. Also, he has the memory of a goldfish. I've probably let this cat in and out of the apartment about 54 times this weekend. He'll come in, and then immediately forget he was just out, and go out again, and then come back in 10 minutes later. (I know, it' s partly my fault for indulging him--but sometimes, moving from the couch to the door and back again is the only exercise I get over the course of several hours. Also, this cat can make some noise. You try ignoring the Yowl of Doom--excruciatingly audible inside and outside the house--while you're trying to read or watch "Law & Order.") Darby is one those cats who will be sitting quietly in one room, and then suddenly, for no discernible reason, decide he has to be in a different room RIGHT NOW, and he'll just bolt out. And then back again. He reacts to catnip the way I imagine humans react to getting a massage while on PCP. He is extremely auditory, with a variety of purrs, coos, and yowls in his repertoire, but he has only three expressions: perfectly content; really, really surprised; and manic. He has been known to bring me gifts of birds, mice, chipmunks, and baby rabbits. I am both appalled and touched by his gestures. Darby's human movie star equivalent: Russell Crowe. (Does this mean I have a subconscious wish that Russell Crowe would bring me dead chipmunks? . . . )
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