For a cat who lives in the lap of luxury, Levi is as twitchy as a rabbit facing a pack of wolves. Being a repressed lap kitty, he likes hanging out near me, but at my slightest move, reaching for something, turning the page of my book, he jumps out of his skin. I promptly apologize, earning a beady-eyed feline stare, the equivalent of “Hey I’m walkin here!” Once he’s regained his composure, I get a paw slap and a nip for causing him to momentarily lose his dignity. Really, he forgets who pays the mortgage and keeps the water fountain and food bowl full of goodness. The cat never fails to amuse.
Apollo and Daphne, John William Waterhouse
During yoga practice this morning Levi insisted on walking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, across my mat and about my legs. I smacked his butterfat rump and told him to cut it out. Giving me a look, he splatted himself across my printout of positions, and I snatched the pages out from under him. This earned me a wide-eyed WTF, and he abruptly turned and stalked off in a snit. Cats!
Reading over yesterday’s post I realized the word meter lags behind my vision of the story. My mind is buried in unwritten pages, but it’s a relief to know where the story road is going. Time to get on with getting Gaius and Annasara out of Lucalla and back to Angharad.
Taffy, 1997 – 2009
Taffy went to her final rest Saturday morning. She had FIV (Feline Immuno Virus), but it was kidney failure that took her away. She was an adorable cat, of sweet disposition, talkative, and smart too. She used to herd me into the bedroom when it was sleep time, she’d try to hold me down in the mornings so I wouldn’t leave her–she’d sit on my chest or my legs, whatever it took–and she talked to me every night, a regular feline scolding for leaving her all day.
Taffy, four years old in 2001, was rescued by a couple ladies from the parking lot of my former workplace. They scooped her up one day, took her to the vet, got her shots and the FIV diagnosis, and sent out an e-mail. I responded and took her home with me. We were best buds the moment she rolled over on my bed and offered her tummy for stroking. We had 8 fun years together.
Cats can live with FIV for a very long time. It’s usually a secondary infection or disease that kills. Taffy was a great cat. She went gently into the long dark.
Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses, John William Waterhouse
19,684, A Lamentation of Swans. I’ve reached a point in the outline where I’m at the edge of the world; I don’t know what to do next. Gaius and Annasara are at the farm, and Gaius is determined to keep her away from the watermill. That scene’s written, and the outline has several new scenes in it. I guess the possibilities are endless, so I’m going to think ahead a bit and consider what Mira’s doing at this point, and what Ferrant might be up to. I’m doing my best to relax and run with my ideas.
Anyway this week’s been good. Day job hours dragged, and Friday seemed like it would never get here, but the weekend’s near at last and I’m looking forward to the writing. I’m meeting with Janet Saturday morning, but before that I’ve got to take Taffy to the vet. Her FIV has kicked in and I’m not sure she’s going to live much longer. She’s pretty ill, poor baby. I hope the vet can do something for her. She’s lost nearly all her teeth, and is refusing to eat, so she’s lost quite a bit of weight too.
Weather’s been nice, temps in the seventies and eighties. After December’s chill, the January sun feels great. Tomorrow’s going to be lovely too.
Taffy is a special cat. She has one particular habit which amuses me no end. I’ll be in bed reading, she’ll be hanging out next to me as she likes to do, and then comes the paw–tap-tap on my collarbone. I look at her; she looks at me; I go back to my book and…tap-tap. I look at her: What do you want? She looks at me, says something in Feline, stares as if waiting for a reply. So I run through the checklist: she’s eaten, the water in the waterdish is fresh, the litterbox is clean, Levi is not bothering her, and we’re in bed together–all’s well. I scratch her ears and kiss her on the nose and go back to reading my book.
Tap-tap. I look at her; she looks at me. What we have here is a failure to communicate. Wash, rinse, and repeat. I really wish I could speak Feline.