Neither here nor there
Aug. 21st, 2012 07:08 pmMe: Is it that obvious to strangers I like hamsters?
Him: Yes.
On Thursday morning, I didn't have enough time to kiss Sif or Dorian on the head. I barely got in a goodbye. When I last saw them, Dorian was happily starting on his holiday kibble after breakfast, and Sif was mulling about the living room, certain something was wrong. Our flight from SF was delayed. We were late to the airport and lucky immigration did not take long getting in, but wound up waiting an extra 30 minutes for our flight. At New York, we had to rush to the plane and still waited on the runway for an extra 30 minutes as other delayed connections came in. We arrived in Vermont. Jerry, my in-laws' cat, was happy to see me when I showed up in their kitchen, and I was happy to see him. He got all the excess love my cats couldn't have.
Right now, the sound of my wheezing reverberates in my silent headphones like a broken record. But the song playing in my head is the theme from Poyopoyo -- you must sing the "Pyon!" at the end of "Maru kai de pyon!" like the sound of a wibbling jelly -- currently all the rage in my strange little world because it reminds me of round, fluffy orange cat pillows.
The day after we arrived in Vermont, Jerry was sent to the cat spa. It was a friendly, cheerful place that clearly obsessed over cats more than most people would. We drove up to Lake Elmore with the family. Since that time, the local wildlife I have sighted include, in some order: a caterpillar that fell on my sleeve as I entered the car, which I kept around until I could let it go on a tree next to a gas station in Montpelier; various baby bass and a perch I still regret I didn't turn into a steamed dinner, caught by my white-milk-and-orange-cheddar 'vegetarian' nephew and which I had to help unhook and release, since all the other family members except my father-in-law, who couldn't make it down the steep deck stairs easily, were too squeamish; a crayfish Seth spotted by the dock (I don't think Vermont gets crayfish seasons...); a couple of loons on the water last evening; four cute and tasty ducks that nap on our warm dock and token random mushrooms I truly wonder about as possible sautes under the birches by the lake.
Our cottage is large and cosy. The kitchen is new, and vastly more well-appointed with tools than my own. The granite counter is big enough to roll out a nice thin pepperkaker. Our bed is plump with coverlets and pillows. It feels at night like we're sleeping on some incredibly luxurious thread count. I look forward to walks with Seth by the lake, so we can stare at trees. Tonight, I look forward to something I cannot do in San Francisco, taking walks, or going otuside late after dark, because our neighbourhood doesn't allow for that safely.
In the mornings, I listen to people starting their day outside our door, and miss the orange cat that should be purring on my forehead, and the small gray creature passing by my door with an audible, "Mrr."
Him: What are you looking at?
Me: Ducks.
Him: They're just sitting there sleeping.
Me: Have you seen what I do with Sif? I watch her while she's sitting and sleeping.
He makes this preposterous claim that I have an unnatural affection for our cats. But all I can think of is how much I want to fight for my rice krispies in the morning, or go numb with 16 pounds of warm happiness on my leg. It's like having something important suddenly disappearing into thin air. Whatever else I do, something is missing.
Him: Yes.
On Thursday morning, I didn't have enough time to kiss Sif or Dorian on the head. I barely got in a goodbye. When I last saw them, Dorian was happily starting on his holiday kibble after breakfast, and Sif was mulling about the living room, certain something was wrong. Our flight from SF was delayed. We were late to the airport and lucky immigration did not take long getting in, but wound up waiting an extra 30 minutes for our flight. At New York, we had to rush to the plane and still waited on the runway for an extra 30 minutes as other delayed connections came in. We arrived in Vermont. Jerry, my in-laws' cat, was happy to see me when I showed up in their kitchen, and I was happy to see him. He got all the excess love my cats couldn't have.
Right now, the sound of my wheezing reverberates in my silent headphones like a broken record. But the song playing in my head is the theme from Poyopoyo -- you must sing the "Pyon!" at the end of "Maru kai de pyon!" like the sound of a wibbling jelly -- currently all the rage in my strange little world because it reminds me of round, fluffy orange cat pillows.
The day after we arrived in Vermont, Jerry was sent to the cat spa. It was a friendly, cheerful place that clearly obsessed over cats more than most people would. We drove up to Lake Elmore with the family. Since that time, the local wildlife I have sighted include, in some order: a caterpillar that fell on my sleeve as I entered the car, which I kept around until I could let it go on a tree next to a gas station in Montpelier; various baby bass and a perch I still regret I didn't turn into a steamed dinner, caught by my white-milk-and-orange-cheddar 'vegetarian' nephew and which I had to help unhook and release, since all the other family members except my father-in-law, who couldn't make it down the steep deck stairs easily, were too squeamish; a crayfish Seth spotted by the dock (I don't think Vermont gets crayfish seasons...); a couple of loons on the water last evening; four cute and tasty ducks that nap on our warm dock and token random mushrooms I truly wonder about as possible sautes under the birches by the lake.
Our cottage is large and cosy. The kitchen is new, and vastly more well-appointed with tools than my own. The granite counter is big enough to roll out a nice thin pepperkaker. Our bed is plump with coverlets and pillows. It feels at night like we're sleeping on some incredibly luxurious thread count. I look forward to walks with Seth by the lake, so we can stare at trees. Tonight, I look forward to something I cannot do in San Francisco, taking walks, or going otuside late after dark, because our neighbourhood doesn't allow for that safely.
In the mornings, I listen to people starting their day outside our door, and miss the orange cat that should be purring on my forehead, and the small gray creature passing by my door with an audible, "Mrr."
Him: What are you looking at?
Me: Ducks.
Him: They're just sitting there sleeping.
Me: Have you seen what I do with Sif? I watch her while she's sitting and sleeping.
He makes this preposterous claim that I have an unnatural affection for our cats. But all I can think of is how much I want to fight for my rice krispies in the morning, or go numb with 16 pounds of warm happiness on my leg. It's like having something important suddenly disappearing into thin air. Whatever else I do, something is missing.