12/3/01
“Fatcat is an era of our lives.” Rubbing against our
shins, curling back and forth, standing by the foodbowl, looking at you, making
sure you aren’t going to leave. Using his stomach as a pillow, just for the
idea of it, because you can’t completely let your neck relax because your head
would weigh down too much on his stomach, so he lays on his side there, stomach,
and your head along with it, puffing up and down, and then you somehow fall
asleep for a brief period. You pick him up beneath the pits of his front two
feet, so he’s hung in the air like a wet towel, his head almost sinking in
between his shoulders, he is expressionless, like he always is, looking grouchy,
like “what the hell are you doing with me now,” and you lay him across your
stomach…
“Miscellaneous: Soft Dough, the Ticks of a Clock, and a
Thorn”
January 14th, 2000,
Finally home. Dejected.
Slip out of the shoes, throw down the bag.
Plop my butt on the sofa leaning forward with
elbows pivoted on knees.
Cat strolls by pleading silently for food.
Reach my arms forward and clasp the upper torso of fur—
In one motion, fall back on sofa and tuck in elbows
to my side while Cat is lain across my chest
like soft
dough.
Hungry, Cat lightly struggles to regain balance on feet.
While cupping the arc of cat-back with one arm,
Other hand gently caresses the white fluff of cat-neck.
The sudden squirms of cat-feet soothes down to zero
like
poisoned Juliet. Purrrrr.
I lay my head back and feel the tension in cat-neck also
slowly
disintegrate; cat-head descending slowly to meet my chest
as I close
my eyes—hand still massaging the white fluff of cat-neck repetitively
like the
ticks of a slow clock.
Almost asleep to the soft, rumbling of cat-motor...
BZZZZzzzzZZZ. bzzzZZZZzzz.
Pet-pillow shoots out of tranquility and
almost rolls
off my chest as my eyelids jump open and my neck jerks
to try and
pinpoint the dot of the interrupting culprit.
Everything neck-up scrambles with fury to locate Bzzz while
everything
neck-down stays in Couch Heaven, unmoved except one
hand,
ticking carefully and hopefully to soothe Cat—bothered
from eternal
comfort.
Target located! Each thin hair of
its anatomy can be deciphered while the bastard
perks its
buzzings against the white paint of the wall.
Looking diagonally-upwards, the speck is not more than two feet away.
I would sell my SOUL for a third hand right now!
...Okay, relax. It’s not worth
it, just close eyes and pretend the little thorn isn’t...
Itch! Itch!
My neck! I want
to...scratch!
Fury! The punk bit me while I was
almost asl... Forget a third hand!
Sorry, Cat. Let me just set you
down and I promise I’ll feed you soon.
Now, you’re dead! I am going to
smash you into...Where’d you go?!