Eartha Kitty

January 19, 2014 at 9:40 pm (Sweet sticky things)

Sugar High

Sugar High

I know, I know. I bitch about cats all the time. Apparently I can’t live with them or without them.

We still have six cats. Fortunately the family has agreed that as they die off we won’t rush to replace them. Kevin, the oldest, is at least twelve years old and has been at this house as long as we have. He’s a cranky old bastard, but we tolerate each others existence. There are three other “useless” cats; Scaredy, a tiny whitish thing that scatters every time I enter the room, even after three years. Then there are Jennifer the Second and Bagel. We call her Bagel because she’s denser than a doughnut.

I used to be allergic to cats. There was a time when sitting in the same room would send me into sneezing fits, a hive-bursting snot-a-thon of misery. I could pet, as long as I walked directly to the sink and washed before touching my face. The cats, of course, noticed my snobbery and returned the favor in kind. I didn’t take it too personally when I’d come out of the bathroom and find them licking their asshole. Touche!

Meg has a beloved cat, Sugar. Sugar looks like the lovely sister of my cat, Django. (We named him that years before the Unchained movie, after the musician and the used record store that used to sit at 11th & SW Stark in beautiful downtown Portland.) Sugar is my buddy. She comes to nestle my hand with her head, and give me a tongue-bath all about the knuckles and forearm. She’s particularly fond of Meg’s eyebrows.

Granny CatThere has been some rustling in kittytown. When I dropped in for my lunch break a few nights back, the back of the chair moved, then I saw the most intense eyes staring back. What what what? And where is Sugar?

“I’m taking care of a friend’s cat. He’s homeless, so this might go on for a while. Meet Misty.”

“Misty? Sorry, but a cat this beautiful shouldn’t have the same name as a stripper from Estacada.”

After I found out she was somewhere between nine and twelve years old, my suggestions of Cicely and Mother Jefferson were shot down with scathing glances of disapproval. “How about Eartha Kitty?”

Unbeknownst to me at the time we were having this discussion, it was Eartha Kitt’s birthday. Still, the girls nixed it.

They decided to call her Granny.

Now, I must have a way with the old girl, because she snaps right to attention when I come into the room. She sits over my shoulder, to the right side, or the left side, on the edge of my easy chair. It’s like a pirate and his bird, only not as messy.

Granny/Misty is showing her age. She doesn’t meow so much as squeak. But if *I* scratch her butt just so? She squeaks and twitches and rubs the top of her head against anything of mine she can find.

Sugar? She still comes out to play, She gets her ears scratched, but mostly she sits on Mama’s chair, or on Mama’s pillow. We all know whose house it it. Sugar just lets us live there. But for now, she’s keeping a low profile…

Camo Cat

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