Cats aren’t really my thing. I like them the way that you like fancy desserts or five course meals: every once in a while. So when my housemate got a cat from her friend, I was happy, but not elated.
But then one day, I got sick. Not COVID sick (I don’t think), but sick enough that my tentative plans were erased from the calendar. My housemate isn’t particularly worried when I tell her, which is refreshing. Social media may scream and thrash in all caps, post signs about masks and injustice with passionate thumbs, and chew on itself in anxious virtue signaling, but this woman I live with says, “I think you’ll be okay.”
The new kitten is my companion. Casper likes to chew on things, particularly my hand, so he is often gently smacked and then dropped off the bed with a soft thump.
He comes back, though. His green eyes are inquisitive, but not loving, unless he really wants a nap.
My friend Jewel says that I’m like a Terry Pratchett witch, the highest praise, really because Terry Pratchett only liked clever, quirky women with practical hobbies for his witches (I should probably save the Terry Pratchett love for another post) I decide to take Casper out on my shoulders whenever I tend the garden, the better to lean into this fictional identity. He blinks in the sunlight and purrs. I have no idea what familiars do, but it’s nice to have company while I’m out in the garden.
I didn’t count on Casper realizing that he likes the outdoors more than the indoors. Now, when we go out, he demands to be let down with a stubborn kick. While I tend the onions and sweet potatoes, he disappears. I turn to find him halfway up a tree, a very dangerous development.
Eventually, though, we decide to let him outside with me regularly. He is smarter than many cats, I think. How many felines have you seen who can climb a tree and then climb back down? The most shocking turn of events happens when he climbs up halfway, eyes me as I swing below him in my hammock, and then jumps like a squirrel to balance beside me.
He is a very photogenetic cat. One night while filming, I invent a persona for him: Casper, Private Eye. He stalks around the house as I voice his thoughts in a deep, trans-Atlantic voice. And when I ask him a question, he meows an answer, irate at my ignorance.
“Of course I’m going to catch the idiot who tipped my water bowl over.”
At night, he curls up beside me and purrs a love song. I’m not supposed to be a cat person. But I guess I am now.
All Things: 