Monday, January 4, 2010

Come Out Come Out Where Ever You Are!

Today, I am forlorn. Usually I am opposed to it...lorn that is...but today, I for it.

Max...."the grey one" cat...doesn't like me anymore. Somehow, he got a scratch on his right eyeball, and it's all squinty and cute. I can't tell if he's mad at me because I've been calling him Popeye or because Brendan and I have been holding him down 3 times a day to put 2 different jellies in his eye. My guess is the jelly...but I'm taking it quite personally.

Max has always been a lover. We call him "The Neighborhood Whore". He flits from house to house soliciting belly rubs, food, love, attention. He has been found numerous times inside our neighbor's homes...laying on their sofas, eating their other pets' food. He worms his way in...and stays. He's adopted the 80 year old man next door as his best friend. He follows him on his walks around the cul de sac...and awaits the impending rub down/cool down on the front steps. This is Max...the lover.

Max has always been a drama queen. Since he was a kitten, he would attempt to break out...he never mastered that one (though he obviously mastered the "break in"...just ask the neighbors). He has always gotten his way...another scoop of food, a 4:oo am cuddle (it is difficult to refuse a 15 pound kitty sitting on your chest and licking your lips and head butting your face), the never ending game of in and the house, out of the the house, out of the house.

Max has always been a brat. He has this stare...his jealous stare. It's like I hear his voice through his eyes...a cross between Stewy from "The Family Guy" and Eeyore...he hates any attention that is not completely on him...especially if it is being paid to his brother Gus. Of course, when either Bren or I see this face...we go running to console our jealous little man...,"oh Max, we love you too...come cuddle...kiss kiss, love love." And we're right back in his furry little pocket once again.

Today I am forlorn because Max isn't being a lover, a drama queen, or a brat. He's hiding from me...under the bed, in the basement. He isn't purring for me, isn't showing me his fat little belly. He shrinks under my touch and leaps away. Like a child saying those 3 horrible words to their parent....I feel it in his eyes...."I HATE YOU!"
Today I am forlorn because I remember saying that to my father. I HATE YOU. He was probably doing something for my own good...feeding me Lima beans, brushing my hair, putting jelly in a scratched eyeball...but I didn't know it. And even if he told me that he was doing it for my own good....maybe I just didn't understand.

My cat is hiding under the bed and I am having a total meltdown. Okay, not entirely...but damn it kind of stings. It took over 30 years and a cat to make me realize how many times I must have stung my father the way that the scratches all over my arms are stinging me right now.

Kids can be little bastards. I know I was. I know I probably never said I was sorry...but I am. Hate isn't in my vocabulary when I speak of my father. I get it now. Max will come around...hopefully his eye will heal, and he won't get too fat from all of the extra food and treats we are plying him with to win back his love....but he'll never say he's sorry. He doesn't need to...he's a cat.
That's all for now,


goodniteirene said...

aw. sweet.
don't know about them cats......cats give me anxiety. totally feel them making fun of me whenever i share their space. fucking snotty cats.

Erica LeBlanc said...

awww. Maybe you should open a can of spinach and leave it for Max. Oh, wait, your hubby probably used the spinach for a side dish with hamburgers the other night. Oh well.