It's come to this. I promised myself I'd hold out on blogging about the cats, but I'm absolutely out of ideas this week. Sure, there'll be tonight's episode of ANTM, and I might get into Top Chef enough to blog about it, but otherwise, there's precious little to write about. And one of the primary laws of the Internet is: When you don't have anything to say, post a cute critter picture.
I took this picture of Emily on a sunny Sunday in mid-September. I had seen The Black Dahlia the day before and was reminded of how freaking incredible the book by James Ellroy was. I bought a paperback copy immediately after the film and finished reading it on Sunday. I sat in the backyard, enjoying the perfect weather while being chilled by the book, and Emily hung out with me until I finished the novel.
"Awww," said J upon viewing the picture. "She looks like a little retiree." Which is quite appropriate; Emily is old. We don't even know how old she is. I got her in 1999, and she was about 5 then, so she's at least 12 now. Of course, she's behaved like an elderly dowager ever since I got her: bossy, picky, demanding, vocal, not without her charms but still Machiavellian to the core. Actually, "Machiavellian" is probably the wrong word. "Evil" might be closer.
After all, this is a cat who will stop at nothing to avenge the most petty slights. Before I came to my senses and got an automatic feeder, she'd retaliate for my weekend slowness at the feed bowl by gorging herself on food to the point that she'd throw up...on something I liked. She's not above using bulimia as a weapon. That's jacked. (Don't even get me started on what she's done to that poor carpet right next to the kitchen table.)
Equally jacked is her determination to interrupt our sleep. Her tactics are many and varied in this mission. She'll stand on her hind legs and rhythmically claw the metal closet doors in the hallway outside the bedroom (tink-tink-tink-tink); she'll "groom" our faces with kitty breath that could peel paint; she'll pick a fight with her pseudo-brother Mojo; at the very least, she'll curl up and sleep between our knees, forcing us to awaken enough to generate the torque sufficient to move her when we shift sleeping positions.
Sometimes, she'll do the "kitty turban," which is when she curls up above our heads on the pillow. This sounds very charming, and it is -- until you are awakened by the distinctive percussive sound of a cat about to chunder and you have to get her off the bed, off of your face and onto a noncarpeted surface before she blows.
I sometimes get the feeling that I'm waiting for her to die. Then she'll have a moment like this picture and I'll get all schmoopy and love her in spite of, well, everything. Damn cat.