The Life of the Artiste or, Being a Cat Owner is H—

We’re on our way to the Fort Worth Indie Film Festival.

All we have to do is get William and Ernest into the carriers and haul them to the vet’s. They watched us pack, said, “We may be crazy, but we ain’t stupid,” and crawled under the bed. This is why one shouldn’t go to film festivals two weekends in a row–cats remember.

An open can of salmon rests on the post at the foot of the stairs. Unfortunately, salmon isn’t as stinky as used to be, and some cats cannot be bribed.

Tired

David is about to try to pull William out from under the bed. Since William needs insulin, his cooperation is critical. Ernest has never been left alone–he’s always had either parents or brother–so his cooperation is critical, too. Scared, lonely cats are scared and lonely, and that worries me, and they sometimes do things to furniture that I don’t want them to do, and that worries me as well. Ernest produces a lot of adrenaline on short notice. After hearing William in crisis, he may stay under the bed for a week, absorbing nutrients from the air.

I hear David upstairs, speaking softly, cajoling, babytalking, being generally sneaky.

We may be on our way to the Fort Worth Film Festival. At present, I am not optimistic, but we persevere….

When I suggested setting the salmon on the post, David said wouldn’t it fall off. I said no. He just came bopping downstairs and knocked it off the post. He’s now cleaning up the mess. It didn’t fall on the carpet. As I said, salmon is not as stinky as it used to be. Water-packed salmon doesn’t taste as good as salmon packed in oil, but next time I shop, I’ll buy the water.

Just wo-ahn out

David has progressed from cloth towel to paper towels and Simple Green. He said Ernest is watching him from the landing. He said Ernest is coming down. It’s not the salmon, it’s curiosity. Here he is! It is the salmon. He’s snuffing and thinking about licking the floor. I hope Simple Green is good for cats. If it isn’t, the vet can take care of it, if we get to the vet.

I turned on “Remington Steele” in hopes the felines will think we’re watching. I’m using the Chromebook so Ernest will be jealous and jump into my lap, as he spends seven days a week doing, except today. Maybe I need to get the laptop out of the suitcase.

He’s on his way back up the stairs. David has gone back upstairs. Ernest came back downstairs. He’s behind my chair. He’s looking at me. He jumped onto the arm of the chair! I rubbed his tummy. He jumped down and is now examining the site of the salmon spill. Now he’s going back upstairs.

David has been upstairs for a long time. He and William are usually kindred spirits, but not right now.

I have not yet begun to weep. But I’m close.

This blog is titled, “Telling the Truth–Mainly.” That comes from Huckleberry Finn. Mr. Mark Twain told the truth, mainly. I am telling the truth, period. Everything I’ve written happened or is happening. Really.

I am becoming disheartened, so I shall stop and concentrate on sending harmonious vibrations to the floor above.

I really, really want to go to this festival.

The life of the artiste is not an easy one.

***

Some people live calm, uneventful lives. Things work. They make plans and carry them out. They write about grammar and cooking and astrophysics. What am I doing wrong?

David is talking babytalk again.

If we had a dog, we’d be in Waco by now.

7 thoughts on “The Life of the Artiste or, Being a Cat Owner is H—

  1. I’ve been there! And with Agamemnon, he learned how to unfasten and get out of his carrier! He pulled the zipper open. He was all enclosed and I was trying to catch James, and Agamemnon strolled past. I had to buy a small dog carrier for him. Good luck.

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