Well.
I don't care what my friend Nick says. I want a cat. And I find it still amusing, many hours later, that he believes I should wait for a man before getting a cat. Else I become a crazy cat lady. His words, not mine.
Really? You do know how to make me smile, friend.
Granted, there might be something to say about putting the adoption off. My currently monthly income cannot support any sort of real lifestyle to speak of, though what social life can I have when I spend most of my time mumbling in Middle English or reading my own Pinochio-nose length papers aloud to an empty apartment, or, if I'm feeling brave, Brett Dennen? I've never met the man, but his music does have a habit of making glaring errors apparent when I offer a recitation of my work.
But today that honor goes to Heather. A family cat adopted eight or nine years ago--I've lost track of my pets' ages in an attempt to deny their truncated life-spans. She and her sister generally avoids my room, and subsequently, the downstairs section of my family's split-level, opting instead for the haven of the bedrooms upstairs from the main floor. Our dog, for all his dumb habits, never ascends a staircase any higher than he has to. And yet, this evening Heather slunk into my room to flop luxuriantly on my comforter, demanding attention. She is a much more personable and less needy cat than her sister, so when she declares a cease-fire on all actions save petting I am more than happy to oblige. The dog tends to run the house with his inability to decide to stay inside or outside and the noxious fumes fired from his rear.
Cats, being civil creatures, avoid him.
I sympathize with Heather. Who wouldn't want to spend all day curled up by the window napping? Or on a pillow. Or the foot of the bed. The sun-warmed floor. Amidst decorative trees on the mantle.
The world is a flexible feline's oyster.
And yet, I can in no way guarantee that any other cat will match the adorable affection and self-sufficiency of Heather. Heather, always clean and never complaining, is often found licking her sister who has grown a touch too rotund to reach the patch of mottled fur on her back.
Genetics are no assurance of tidiness.
Which begs the question: even if my hypothetical kitty fastidiously keeps herself clean, will I remember to continually vacuum or Swiffer the floor of the inevitable flood of fur accumulating in every corner? I don't enjoy vacuuming, nor do I actually own a vacuum, lending even less inspiration to find a way to execute this most unwanted chore.
I hope to acquire a vacuum of my own someday. Though not merely to clean up after the subtly domesticated animal who nearly slipped off the corner of my desk just now due to a mis-estimation of the weight bearing capacity of an un-recycled envelope. No. Owning a vacuum indicates I have moved beyond the status of heavily dependent student to an adult who is responsible for more than generating ream after ream of academic papers while dressed in studious casual--t-shirts and long underwear. With a vacuum with which to clean and a cat to look after, I would, in theory, not merely wade into selfish laziness and culinary forgetfulness. Another livelihood would depend upon me, an inversion of the familiar.
Never mind that a cat would fair far better than I would, should we both be turned out on the streets.
Heather is opening her eyes after one of many micro-naps.
I remember. These are all but wistful dreams.
