I wake up a little sick. Wake up feeling blach and blah and blurg and just slightly urf. My my Jeté, my Tator Tot loves it when I'm sick. That means I'm in bed. Not only in one place (because really, how frustrating is it that I just won't stay put?) but in a cozy bed where she can maximize prime cuddle time.
She hops on the bed with a small squeak. Oh yes. It's cuddle time, so I'd better prepare. I move my laptop to the side and wiggle my fingers, the universal sign for "don't you want a nice pet?" She walks around me, trying to find the optimal direction to approach. Once she decides on an approach, she walks gingerly up my body until she can determine the prime location to settle. Today it's apparently right on my stomach with her paws resting on my chest.
I put my hand up to pet her head and she pushes her head into my hand before I can even move. As I stroke her soft head, starting between the eyes and going backward, sometimes cupping my hand over her whole head and over her ears, she starts to get a good purr going.
She has one little white spot right between her eyes, like a third eye. I lightly press my finger there, pushing my love into her. I smooth her incredibly soft, grey fur that I've never, ever felt on another cat. People constantly remark about how soft she is. I can't explain it. She's just a rescue kitty, but she has the hair of a Rex Rabbit. It's long and shiny (because she obsessively cleans it) and downy soft.
I scratch under her chin and she lifts her head back to give me plenty of chin scratching space. I can feel her purring throat under my fingertips. She's beyond purring now. When she gets really happy, the purr turns into a coo. Really. She coos.
I run my hands from her head to her tail, cringing every time I touch the huge lump on her back where it used to be smooth and svelte. She has one square patch of fur that's course and shorter than the rest from her surgical biopsy. I wonder if it will grow out before she's gone.
Oh wait. She starts to get up. Cuddle time is clearly over. At this point she usually gets off me and finds a perfect spot to clean my dirty human germs off her fur. But not today. Instead she just maneuvers herself to a more comfy position on my lap and decides this is a good place for a nap.
I rest my hand on her body and measure the rise and fall of her lungs, silently making a note of the rate to record. Seems so far the numbers are pretty steady. I wonder for a second if I can check on computery things without angering her majesty and try to type one handed. She looks up at me with her big, green eyes, like, Really, woman? That can't wait? and pulls her paw over her face to block out the light. I love it when she does that. So freaking adorable.
I will myself to soak in every detail, to remember everything about this moment. About her.
ever tell you that I didn't really want a cat when I got her? We always
had cats in my house. Well, we always had animals. Lots of animals to
fill an acre of desert land in California. But THAT is a post for
another day. But the cats I grew up with were stereotypical cats. They
were either outdoor cats, busy hunting and getting eaten by coyotes
(sorry for that), or they were aloof or bitchy or snobby. I'd never had a
So I wanted a dog. But I couldn't have a
dog in my small, Hollywood apartment. Never mind why. Pretty sure my
neighbor Gloria had a pet squirrel, but I guess squirrels don't bark so.
wasn't completely sold on the whole cat thing but I went to the shelter
just to look and came home with Jeté. You can read that story here. At
23, I'd begun my decent into cat lady status.
My sweet furbaby.
know Jeté and I don't have that much time left. I don't know how much
really. It's not like the vets even really know. So I just make sure she
keeps her weight up and monitor her respiration and keep an eye on her
massively growing tumor.
Most of all, I try to soak her in.
Her cuddly sweetness.
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