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August is becoming a lap cat despite her best intentions. It began because the four o'clock to five o'clock have-you-noticed-me-yet keyboard parade was driving me mad, so instead of picking her up and putting her off the desk, I picked her up and put her in my lap—and she stayed there through the hour. When she came here, August wasn't particularly fond of being picked up. But I suppose there was no chance that I'd forget her, or she'd not notice that I was getting the food, if she was sitting square atop me. There was some tail-twitching, but I didn't hold her in place. She chose to stay. That was some weeks ago, and the same "oh god cat shut up" trick continues to work. This morning I woke up early and she crawled into my lap all on her own, and we watched Star Trek: The Next Generation until breakfast. But now she's just done it again, with her tummy all happy and full, so I'll watch a bit more Trek and come back to this.
Part of it, I know, is that we've entered the season of overcast days and cool nights (thank goodness), and I'm a convenient heat source. Last night when I went to bed, she did a instant turnaround from crazy cat to stealing-the-blankets cat, bless her. Indeed I'm quite content to be used for my body heat; the feather-soft fluff stretched out against my leg right now is reward enough for me. (Her head is in the crook of my knee and her eyes are squished closed, and she's napping.)
But part of it is that my cat loves me. I could swear she missed me when I was in Corvallis—missed me enough that she's been glued to me since I got back, with a watchful awareness even when she's sleeping on the bed because you never know, I may leave again. She loves me, and she's at home here. Of course August was a big pile of fluffy snuggles the very minute she came out of her cat carrier, but this is something more than a cuddly cat. This is trust: learning that it's okay if I pick her up, learning that she can pounce on me when we play, learning that we're both happy if she crawls all over me. She did when I was at the desk the other day, not because she was hungry but because I was there and she looooved me, she loved me, she loved me so much that I ended up feeling like I was breathing furry air but the honest truth is that I can't complain. My initial adoption paperwork was pretty much a personality test for human/cat matchmaking, and the last question—a fill in the blank after a list of checkboxes—asked me: What do you want from you cat? And I wrote: For her to love me (and be happy!). I will have other relationships with other cats, but with my first, with August, I want love and joy, and love, and joy.
Don't tell her (although I'm sure she'll figure it out soon), but I will be leaving again because aaaaaah I'm going to California what was I thinking. I leave on Thursday for my 18-hour train ride, and arrive on Friday. I'll be there for a week, and then do another overnight trip to come home. It's a big enough thing—long journeys, a long stay—that there's plenty of pragmatic detail to consume me. I've been loading up on things to do and ways to help me sleep on the train, and planning schedules for when I clean and what I pack. As a result, some of what would be freefloating nervous energy has a focus—but I'm also quite aware that aaaaaah this is actually happening ohgod.
Express and I are both nervous because we're the socially awkward, bad at hugs sort, and we've been friends for approximately forever, and the combination is terrifying. But there's little moments (me, worried that I won't sleep well on the train and I'll get there and ruin the first day being tired; him, saying "well, if you are super tireds ... we can just just set up bed and you can nap for a bit. if you yawn too much i will nap too :P") that remind me of, well ... trust, I suppose. Love, and trust. This is so surreal and nerve-wracking a thing that I've already had the thought "or I could not go! yes, that would definitely make the planning easier!," and my tail may twitch because this is something strange and new and I good with neither, but—well, I'm not expecting Express to put me in his lap or anything, let's not overextend the metaphor, but—
I dare to eat this peach. I will allow the world to pick me up. It betrays me to admit it, but I expect I'll like it.
Although I will miss my cat.
Part of it, I know, is that we've entered the season of overcast days and cool nights (thank goodness), and I'm a convenient heat source. Last night when I went to bed, she did a instant turnaround from crazy cat to stealing-the-blankets cat, bless her. Indeed I'm quite content to be used for my body heat; the feather-soft fluff stretched out against my leg right now is reward enough for me. (Her head is in the crook of my knee and her eyes are squished closed, and she's napping.)
But part of it is that my cat loves me. I could swear she missed me when I was in Corvallis—missed me enough that she's been glued to me since I got back, with a watchful awareness even when she's sleeping on the bed because you never know, I may leave again. She loves me, and she's at home here. Of course August was a big pile of fluffy snuggles the very minute she came out of her cat carrier, but this is something more than a cuddly cat. This is trust: learning that it's okay if I pick her up, learning that she can pounce on me when we play, learning that we're both happy if she crawls all over me. She did when I was at the desk the other day, not because she was hungry but because I was there and she looooved me, she loved me, she loved me so much that I ended up feeling like I was breathing furry air but the honest truth is that I can't complain. My initial adoption paperwork was pretty much a personality test for human/cat matchmaking, and the last question—a fill in the blank after a list of checkboxes—asked me: What do you want from you cat? And I wrote: For her to love me (and be happy!). I will have other relationships with other cats, but with my first, with August, I want love and joy, and love, and joy.
Don't tell her (although I'm sure she'll figure it out soon), but I will be leaving again because aaaaaah I'm going to California what was I thinking. I leave on Thursday for my 18-hour train ride, and arrive on Friday. I'll be there for a week, and then do another overnight trip to come home. It's a big enough thing—long journeys, a long stay—that there's plenty of pragmatic detail to consume me. I've been loading up on things to do and ways to help me sleep on the train, and planning schedules for when I clean and what I pack. As a result, some of what would be freefloating nervous energy has a focus—but I'm also quite aware that aaaaaah this is actually happening ohgod.
Express and I are both nervous because we're the socially awkward, bad at hugs sort, and we've been friends for approximately forever, and the combination is terrifying. But there's little moments (me, worried that I won't sleep well on the train and I'll get there and ruin the first day being tired; him, saying "well, if you are super tireds ... we can just just set up bed and you can nap for a bit. if you yawn too much i will nap too :P") that remind me of, well ... trust, I suppose. Love, and trust. This is so surreal and nerve-wracking a thing that I've already had the thought "or I could not go! yes, that would definitely make the planning easier!," and my tail may twitch because this is something strange and new and I good with neither, but—well, I'm not expecting Express to put me in his lap or anything, let's not overextend the metaphor, but—
I dare to eat this peach. I will allow the world to pick me up. It betrays me to admit it, but I expect I'll like it.
Although I will miss my cat.
