When the book of similar title came out I didn’t buy it. I didn’t read it. I have sort of a rebellious streak in me about books that provide all of life’s answers. I don’t do Shel Silverstein or Mitch Albom either. So, you know, make of that what you will in the comment department; I don’t care. I’m feeling feisty today. That’s my solution to feeling confused: just get feisty. I’m practicing for the future.
I lost the first half of the week in Florida and then I pushed all my appointments into two days and now there’s a three day weekend coming up so I wasn’t even sure what day it was today. I even confused two of my favorite blogs early this morning so the comments make no sense whatsoever.
Sophie doesn’t care what day it is. Her life is very day-to-day and as long as we operate according to her schedule everything is right with her world. She has a winter schedule and a summer schedule; those are both fairly simple and orderly.
Her winter schedule involves sleeping by the heat register twenty hours a day, get up to eat three times, a couple of brief social visits with us, knock over a random plant or two, smack the big 22# galoot on the nose a couple times, go back to sleep.
Summertime she sleeps from 10 AM til 3 PM and then the rest of the time she makes her outdoor rounds with an occasional brief rest. A lot of her business is conducted at night so there’s a period of retraining that involves getting us up at 3AM to let her out and again at 5AM to let her in. She’s not vocal like Max so when she wants out she climbs on top of the television in our bedroom and rocks back and forth on it so it makes a really grating plastic squeaky sound. When she wants back in she climbs the tree to the roof and comes over onto the balcony with our bedroom slider and climbs the screen for as long as it takes to get us up- 3 minutes, 45 minutes- it doesn’t matter to her how long it takes, so training season is short; we get up on the first good snag.
Sophie is one of those felines that has all the attributes, in spades, that cat people love and dog people point to as objectionable. I certainly would be hard pressed to count the ways she demonstrates her love, concern or involvement with us and yet, she’s a presence. She is not a lap cat but she usually sleeps in her bed behind my chair. She spends a lot of time on the computer. She doesn’t ask for stuff out loud but she can burn a hole in my brain by sitting quietly next to her dish and staring at me. She confines her destructive scratching to one chair and one chair only- the one I sit in to do therapy.
When I go away, she misses me. This animal who, for all the world, barely acknowledges my existence, misses me when I’m gone. When I return she’s happy enough that she brings me a gift. She doesn’t normally hunt, although she likes to bird watch. She never eats her kill (although the big galoot has been known to steal her gifts and eat them, hungry mooch that he is). She only hunts when she needs a welcome home gift. She brings them and makes one audible meow which is the cue to get up, admire the gift and find a ziplock bag. Normally it’s a mouse, never a bird, but last night it was a baby bunny. She climbed the tree with it, brought it up over the roof and stood at the balcony screen. When FG opened the door she scooted in with the bunny and ran downstairs; her intuition no doubt warned her that I might be ambivalent about such a sizable gift. When we got to her the bunny was unmarked but dead- just barely because it was still warm and I had the feeling that it’s tiny bunny soul hadn’t quite lifted yet. FG picked it up and we were both very dismayed and sad. Sophie looked up expectantly, wanting so much for us to be pleased.