We live in a small flat. There are four living creatures and 12 legs. This of course is not counting the various spiders no doubt riding out the winter in my house. But the less I know about that, the better I will be able to sleep.
One of us is an old cat: pushing nineteen, I think. However, I too am old and don’t remember exactly when this old cat came to my shores. She has always been a rather rambunctious one and I never knew why. She is chatty, loud, occasionally aggressive, and overcome with the vapors if her food isn’t on time. There’s a change I once came across an article on how pets take on the characteristics of their owners, but I can’t remember, because I’m pretty sure I blocked it out of my memory. Or sent it to hell. Or both.
Anyway, that young rambunctious cat is now an old cat. She walks like an old cat, and spends a lot of time looking at me and trying to figure out who exactly I am. But she can still move. She still occasionally explodes with the absurd ninja gifts that cats get to offset the fact that they puke for fun and can’t read books. Because if they could, they would surely rule this planet.
We have moved twice since I’ve had the cat and each time has been to a smaller flat. She was born into a wide palace where it was just me and her and occasional visitors. Then three of us moved to a smaller, but not small flat. Then we took on one more animal and the four of us moved to a smaller flat. When we moved, we left the cat in the old flat for a few days because the balcony would have been dangerous for her (i.e. she is, like all cats, curious and, as we know, this may be their undoing if they get too curious on a balcony 50 feet above the ground). But I spent time with her because I had to clean the old flat. When we finally brought her here a couple weeks later, the gratitude was palpable. I felt terrible about that: Could this old cat really think I’d abandon her now? I’d kick my own ass if I did that.
The old cat would probably be enjoying its waning years graphically were it not for the fact that we introduced a young dog to the mix about 4 years ago. This young dog is filled with joy and exuberance and the kind of energy that puppies have that makes them the metaphor on things that have a lot of energy. For her, glorious. For the rest of us, exhausting. For the old cat, potentially traumatizing.
Maybe.
See, at all times of the day, I hear the dog approach the old cat. The old cat responds with a yell. A straight up yell. Baaaaa! Baaaaa! Now, for, oh, 3ish years, I thought this was the cat displaying and exclaiming her misery for all to enjoy. At 3 am. But the old cat oftens seeks out the young dog and only then does she scream. Baaaa! Baaa! Is it possible that the old cat likes the young dog?
Maybe.
When we travel, we bring the dog to a little hotel outside of Prague, because we are exactly those people who don’t have kids and think our dog is a human who we should spoil and put sweaters on. (What of it??!!) Anyway. We brought her back here after 8 days away and the old cat and the young dog sort of sized each other up. And then they both got on the couch and went to sleep a few inches away from each other. And everyone was happy. Until the cat puked at 2 am and her exhausted owner stepped in it at 5 am, making it the first thing he did this morning and which pretty well set the tone for the rest of his day.
Why am I telling you this story?
Because Christmas.
