Wednesday, December 26, 2012

I Am Siamese If You Don't Please

 
Oh, god, reminiscence.  全然見逃しちゃ駄目.  This is, however, what the holidays are for, of course.  I do not turn to the heavens for a charting of my stars so that I may understand my place in the universe.  Nothing so gauche.  Rather, I, like my Viking ancestors, recount tales of times passed, from childhoods best forgotten.

I look to the fact that now I am the proud, somewhat lackadaisackal owner of a Siamese cat.  She is utterly infatuated with me, and refuses to withdraw her claws.  I do my best to spoil her, as city "friends" are wont to do with their charges -- she has catnip infused balls, the little mouse-at-the-end-of-the-rubber-string-tied-to-a-stick toy (which occupies five minutes every day), a cruel-looking wire brush she adores to the point of sexual frisson, Taste of the Wild (kibble and soft food), an ever-clean shithouse -- but I am hopeless.  She cannot bear to let me go every morning, but I find myself emotionally rather indifferent to her.  She's more like a dog on me than a cat.

Times were once different.  In Richmond, California, on the corner of 38th and Roosevelt, there stood a tiny, canary-yellow bungalow.  Behind that bungalow lay a square of patio.  In the corner of that patio, the one between the sliding glass door of the kitchen and the back garage door, I huddled frantic and panicked, screaming and in pain, all of three years old.  I was the prey of rapacious Bat-Cat, a fiend from hell with blue eyes, grey nose and paws and tail, and a raging jealousy of the attention lavished upon me by my mother.  Bat-Cat, who would regularly steal food from my father's plate and hang upside down on the screen outside while my dad fried chicken.  Bat-Cat, who once gave my mother a black eye she was too embarrassed to say wasn't given by my father.

You would think Bat-Cat would have secured me as highly phobic of felines.  Rather, I've had cordial and warm-hearted relationships with all the cats and dogs in my life, save for one or two meth-addict-owned Pomeranians.  To the point where, I am now the semi-reluctant ward of my own Siamese cat, an emotionally needy, abusive twat who can count Bat-Cat as her proud forbear.

Tell me again how this world is supposed to make sense.