I spent my last hour or so before bedtime last night here in the Were Depress, just knocking about reading what all of my fine online acquaintances have to say about life, the universe, and everything, and hanging out with Miss Autumn, the world’s most extraordinary cat. Or at least the one who would be if it were an officially designated title. Since it’s not an official title, I guess it’s up to me and that means that she’s the world’s most extraordinary cat. So there.
I am not a cat person. I am, though, and Autumn Cat person. She’s an affectionate little house lion, playful and talkative. We have little rituals that we do, surrounding pretty much all of our daily routines. Autumn plays her parts very well, from the time just before we arise in the morning until after we’ve retired to bed in the evening. She’s like clockwork that way, always right there at the right time for the next of the dozen or more rituals we do throughout the day.
At bedtime, our ritual is that Autumn leads me to the bedroom so I don’t get lost. She shows me the correct door by nuzzling its frame, and is the first one through the door when it opens. She checks to make sure there are no monsters, and confirms that Amethyst is still breathing — she walks alongside the bed to the head of it, then looks up toward Amethyst’s head, and once satisfied she turns and makes her way back into the middle of the room. Sometimes she just hops into her laundry basket (the one she decided would be her bed after rejecting those cat beds I’d bought for her), other times she is satisfied that all is well and leaves the room. Last night it went like this:
Okay, I’ve walked you to bed, so now it’s time for me to go out and walk on the kitchen counters.
Oh. Did I say that out loud?
Yes, you did.
Oh. No matter. Go to bed. Where I’m going, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of.
Don’t go all Bogart noble on me. You’re going to go walk around on my counters.
You know you’re not supposed to do that.
Go to bed. I have things to do here. I’m on a schedule.
You’re a bitch.
What’s not to love about an insanely cute bitch?
She had me there. That damn cat has got my number and knows it. She’ll walk on the damn counter when I’m at the stove, and meow at me to get my attention so she can jump down and get on with other things. There’s nothing on the counter she wants, she just wants me to know she can walk on it whenever she wants to and I’m powerless to do anything about it or to even stay mad for more than a few seconds. It’s what Cute Bitches do. They don’t want anything more than to know and have it acknowledged that they can do with impunity any damn thing they want to do.
This was Miss Awesome at eight weeks old, the day she came to live with us. It’s my favorite photo of her, a Cute Bitch in training. Who could say no to that face?
Just now she’s here in my office, behind me, meowing. She doesn’t want to be fed, or petted, or anything else of that nature. She just wants me to turn around and acknowledge her so we’ll both know that I’m powerless against her Cute Bitch aura. And dammit, I’m going to do it because I’m powerless.