This morning, the most amazing thing happened; it feels like I've had a visit from Santa Claus.
For six and half years now, we've been living with an invisible cat named Kizzy. OK, she's not actually invisible, but it sure feels that way every time we have to convince a visitor that the litter box, in fact, is not just a cleverly placed decoration. Way back, when I realized she was far more skittery than the shelter people had let on, I stubbornly - foolishly - declared to the husband that I'd have our adorable little fur factory sitting on my lap in no time. I hate it when I'm wrong.
Actually, she's almost like a normal pet when nobody's looking. I get to chase her from room to room, sometimes catching her long enough for a minute of huggy cuddles. I get toss her something to play with and deal with her blank stares, as if waiting for my next trick. I get to keep her well-fed and pretend not to mind cleaning up her occasional hairball on the carpet. I even get to share the bed with her, where she's careful never venture any closer to the lap than foot level.
Lately, though, Kizzy has been showing subtle signs of cracking under my "you SHALL sit on my god damned lap someday because I am the Cat Whisperer" pressure. In fact, she's been so responsive - sitting next to me on the couch for long stretches of time, snuggling against my thigh when she thinks I'm asleep, letting me pick her up after only half of a lap around the room - that I've started to wonder who this new cat is that looks so much like our Little Miss Priss.
Then today happened. October 14, 2007 began with my usual, stubborn routine of cooing at the cat, trying to get her to come to me, rather than the usual vice versa scenario. I'm still lying down in bed and all of a sudden, she's sitting on my lap and purring audibly! She even stayed there long enough for the husband to catch photographic evidence! Even if Kizzy never gives me lap time again, I'll always have today, the day I got to think for one fleeting, triumphant moment, "I WIN!"
For six and half years now, we've been living with an invisible cat named Kizzy. OK, she's not actually invisible, but it sure feels that way every time we have to convince a visitor that the litter box, in fact, is not just a cleverly placed decoration. Way back, when I realized she was far more skittery than the shelter people had let on, I stubbornly - foolishly - declared to the husband that I'd have our adorable little fur factory sitting on my lap in no time. I hate it when I'm wrong.
Actually, she's almost like a normal pet when nobody's looking. I get to chase her from room to room, sometimes catching her long enough for a minute of huggy cuddles. I get toss her something to play with and deal with her blank stares, as if waiting for my next trick. I get to keep her well-fed and pretend not to mind cleaning up her occasional hairball on the carpet. I even get to share the bed with her, where she's careful never venture any closer to the lap than foot level.Lately, though, Kizzy has been showing subtle signs of cracking under my "you SHALL sit on my god damned lap someday because I am the Cat Whisperer" pressure. In fact, she's been so responsive - sitting next to me on the couch for long stretches of time, snuggling against my thigh when she thinks I'm asleep, letting me pick her up after only half of a lap around the room - that I've started to wonder who this new cat is that looks so much like our Little Miss Priss.
Then today happened. October 14, 2007 began with my usual, stubborn routine of cooing at the cat, trying to get her to come to me, rather than the usual vice versa scenario. I'm still lying down in bed and all of a sudden, she's sitting on my lap and purring audibly! She even stayed there long enough for the husband to catch photographic evidence! Even if Kizzy never gives me lap time again, I'll always have today, the day I got to think for one fleeting, triumphant moment, "I WIN!"
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