I will suffer in silence no longer. You want to know more about what it's really like? You want all the hidden things revealed? Your wish is my command. I will give you a glimpse into the daily terror I face and have -- thus far -- survived to share with you all.
It has a (furry) face. It has a (ridiculous) name.
It is: Jim the Cat.
He had us all fooled at the onset. He seemed so sleepy. So peaceful and blissfully domestic. All snuggly and warm and lovable.
That's what gets you. The happy motor going strong as he rubs the side of his face against your petting hand and flops over to give you belly.
But he was just sick. It was all a horrible facade. He had caught a terrific cold at the shelter. That was what accounted for the false pretenses and miscommunications.
Now he haunts my waking (and sleeping) hours and I mean that literally. He tracks me throughout the house. Even in that most sacred of places I am not safe. That's right, folks, not even the bathroom.
Jim the Fastidious:
He is an agile beastie: with his little pawtoes he whaps open the sliding bathroom door (don't I get ANY privacy?) and then whaps open the shower doors to contemplate joining me.
Cats are supposed to HATE water. Hnph. Not only does Jim continually dabble his furry paws in it any chance he gets, he has been completely doused several times. And yes, I laughed when I heard the ruckus. Most diabolically I laughed. It was ENTIRELY his own doing, I might add. I didn't give him even the slightest nudge.
And speaking of things cats are supposed to hate, let's talk about toothpaste. The vet says normal cats hate it. He's never met one that doesn't shrink away from that minty-fresh smell we humans crave as part of our eternal quest toward improved personal hygiene.
Apparently Jim the Cat is on this quest as well, because when I brush my teeth (yes, I do!), I will more often than not suddenly feel the delicate (i.e. razorsharp) clawtips as they patter delightfully (i.e. rake painfully, leaving bloody furrows) up the entire length of my body so that Jim the Cat can nestle on my shoulders. He even -- and don't get too grossed out here, folks, you're the ones who wanted to hear more -- gently paws open my mouth when I'm done brushing so he can (try to) lick any residual Colgate with Whitening Power off my lips.
And mouthwash? Oooooo! (delicious shiver) Nectar of the gods!
We have to hide the toothpaste tube and the toothbrushes because he will lick them clean. Who'd of thunk we'd have a Battle Royale over sink/bathroom time. With a cat.
Jim the Night Stalker:
Another darling tactic of Jim the Cat's is to hide in the corner of the stairway and then launch down on me when I go upstairs to say goodnight to Jesse. I can tell you, there's nothing quite like an aerial cat to make you Air Jordan.
Jim the Reconnaissance Man:
Jim the Cat is regularly on a Search & Rescue Mission for milk tabs, Tonka truck wheels, and loose toy parts, busily retrieving small items from Jesse's stockpile. His favorite? The little plastic cup that comes with Children's Tylenol.
Again, who'd have thunk I'd have to reassure a tearful 4-year-old that "Meow Meow" is not really going to eat his toys.
Probably not, anyway. I try not to make any guarantees.
So three guesses as to who was responsible for the precariously tilting Christmas shrub which greeted my bleary eyes at 6:00 this morning:
*Was that T.S. Eliot? Somebody help me out here....