In 415 blog posts I haven’t yet written about my cats. Sure, I’ve mentioned Ricky and Lucy a time or two, but they’ve never been the subject of the blog. There’s a reason for that.
Six-and-a-half years ago, a wise person cautioned me that people who talk about their pets are boring. I don’t necessarily agree but–except in the most personal company–I’ve borne that advice in mind.
That wise person was my son. When my husband and I began thinking of getting a pet after not having had one, we consulted our son, primarily because he suffered from allergies. He said he’d support our getting a cat under the firm condition that we not become “pet people.”
To his mind, “not being pet people” came in two parts: not talking about pets to anyone and not putting their pictures on Christmas cards.
I honored this condition for a while but, when our son went off to college, Ricky and Lucy achieved human status and bumped him from his place in the household hierarchy. Yes, I’m a Crazy Cat Lady–what of it?
Last week I noticed a blog featured on Freshly Pressed, WordPress’ selection of best posts. It caught my eye because it didn’t include more than a few words. Simply, there were pictures of cats. Lots of pictures of cats. Cute and funny pictures of cats. Here, have a look.
I thought, if the good people at WordPress deemed this sweet display worthy of featuring, then I might be free to express my ailurophilia for just one day in this space, usually devoted to the written word.
Meet Lucy, who likes helping me in the office:
Now meet Ricky, who works feats of marvel and self incarceration:
Please don’t unsubscribe. I’ll be back with words next time.
There are seven humans and two cats in a house normally occupied by two, plus various and sundry others dropping in, so we’re operating at a heightened state of energy. The glorious sounds of giggles, piano music, video games, pets being chased and balls being thrown waft through the air. I can never hear “Hey, Aunt Monica, …” enough times.
Now the contractors are here to refinish the floors, a process I’m told will generate significant amounts of dust. Instead of writing my blog, I spent the morning hours removing the remaining items from the counters and sealing up all of the cabinets because, if gobs of pine dust fill my drawers, I will surely melt. I’m already teetering on the edge of sanity.
Yesterday, while away on a business trip, I received a message from our neighbor that Elvis had returned home to his family, where he died. According to the note, Elvis “spent the last several nights curled up inside, comfortably on a pillow.” As with most hospice situations, and as it should be, the patient died surrounded by family.
Word Nymph 
