I’ve turned my not-blog boring before by mentioning this,* but again, you do NOT have to add an email address to leave a comment. I set up the commenting to be as easy as possible, and just because it SAYS “email” in one of the lines, it is not required that you put one in.
And see? That is how we should be in life. Question authority.
*I like how I act like otherwise, this thing is riveting.
Yesterday after breakfast, Steely Dan stomped out, the way he does, into the yard and beyond. When I got home for lunch, he was nowhere to be seen. If Lily and Iris go outside, by lunch they’re delighted to see me, as they’ve been lounging in the back yard, or hiding under Peg’s magnolia, or…well, no, that’s about it. That’s all they do.
But not Steely Dan.
I can always go outside and spot my other cats.
After work yesterday, I had to get my hair done at 5:15, so I didn’t have a chance to go home.
I forgot to take an after. Hey, it was late. Roots are done, okay? That’s it.
I like where I get my hair done–it’s an old mill, like everything is here, because we used to be cotton here. We were the touch, the feel, of cotton. The fabric of our lives. And then, just like in Michigan where I grew up, someone got greedy or something, and all those jobs dried up and now mills are all other things. The point is, it’s pretty where I get my hair done, and I drive from an old mill where I work to an old mill to get m’hairs done, and then to my regular house where I mill about.
When I got home at 7:30, Edsel was champing at the bit for dinner, as it was two hours late. Of course he didn’t have to go outside, because he never goes outside. The only way that dog goes outside is if we’re on a walk or if I open the back door and walk outside with him. Then he gleefully pees on his pee tree, and hangs his head in shame to go off to the bushes to do the…other thing that he does not like me to see. It’s part of his breed. His weird, weird breed. They poop very secretively. HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SHEPHERD MIX. That’s going on his tombstone.
Oh my god, anyway.
When I got home and took care of Edsel, I was annoyed that Steely Dan had not deigned to come home FOR 12 HOURS. I called and called, and finally I heard a pound on the back door. He likes to let himself in and out via the screen door, but when it’s shut, he stands back there and opens the screen over and over, so it bangs, which makes me think of Ned saying, “I’d like to bang her like a screen door in a thunderstorm,” which was a good line even though I wished to punch him clean in the mouth every time he announced to me anyone else he wanted to bang.
Anyway, there he was, Steely Dan, I mean, no worse for the wear, having done god knows what with god knows whom. He ate his disgusting canned food (careful readers will note that I mentioned on Facebook that he would not eat his new food, and pardon me boy, is that the cat who eschews his new food.
I was waiting him out and leaving the old stuff in his bowl and not giving him new food, like Joan Crawford, till he got hungry enough to eat it. He never did. That food sat there drying and untouched. I caved and Edsel gladly ate that can of old dry cat food).
and then before I could even NOTICE, before 10 minutes had PASSED,
Screen door in a thunderstorm. He left the house again.
“Steely DAN,” I fishwifed after him, as he sauntered off into the night.
I tried to call him before I went to bed, but he wouldn’t answer my texts.
This morning when I got up, all my regularly scheduled pets were happy to see me. When I open the door of my room, they’re all splayed out hopefully on the hall rug, and one day I should try to remember to take my camera to bed with me. Which sounds dirty. But I mean so that in the morning I can remember to photograph them all splayed in the hall, waiting.
You know what I’ll never remember to do?
I fed no-fuss Lily and no-trouble Iris, then got Edsel’s litany of pills ready and fed him his eleven thousand dollar grain-free food that isn’t helping his raw, red skin and itches and smellyness, and went to the back door.
“Kittykittykittykittykitty! SteeeeeeleeeeDAN! SteeeeeeeeleeDAN! Come on, honey.”
So while I was writing you about not having to add an email to leave a comment, I heard some crunching.
I didn’t even hear him come IN, and that’s how he operates. He’s stealthy. He opened that door without a peep and came in. And you KNOW he’s hungry when he deigns to eat the girl cats’ dry food. I should have left that disgusting pile of ancient canned for him. He’d have eaten it, you know, by day 14 or something.
The thing is,
Now he’s got me right where he wants me. Because those rare moments when he’s home, I’m so goddamn happy to see him that he can get away with anything. Can? Even though mealtime is over? Sure. You want to chew my wedding dress? Let me get it out of the wrapping.
So now I’ve got myself a love avoidant cat. I mean, all cats are love avoidant, except Lily, who has some sort of pet-me disorder. But the more he avoids coming home and sitting on me, the more desperately I wish for him to be home and sitting on me. The more indifferent he is, the more I love him.
HE IS EVERY MAN I’VE EVER DATED. That photo up there could be my homecoming picture, my prom photo, my wedding snaps, every photo I ever took of Ned and me.
(Actually, I think Marvin was a secure attacher. He was not love avoidant. AND LOOK HOW THAT WENT.)
I just looked around, and I see that he’s left again, stealthily. I walked into the yard, despondent, and all that’s back there is Lily, who looked at me like, “Oooo, you thinking to pet Lilleeee?”
And because she’s too available, I turned my back on her and slammed the door.