Cats

I love my cat. I want to state that first of all. This cat was given to me by a parent of one of my students. It was named by a little girl, and since it responds to the name, I continue to call her the ever-so-manly name of: Itsy.

I should have known about this cat by the way she was offered to me. The previous owner had heard me saying that I wouldn't mind having a house cat, something I had never had before. In her own words, "This cat is perfect for you. It's insane." Gee, thanks. At least I made an impression. The same impression as their cat. I'm glad I made a difference in a life.

So now I have an insane cat. Oh, sure. She can be be affectionate and loving. There are times I'll wake up and find her fast asleep (one step away from comatose) on my chest. Or, when I'm talking on the phone, and hence not giving her enough attention, she will, ever so lovingly, claw-climb up my body to my chest, and with all four paws still drawing blood, begin purring and rubbing her head on my chest.

I won't comment on her attack moments, because all cats will, for no reason, decide to try to kill you. The only thing I think is weird is that she really and truly despises my feet and decides at least three times a night that they must die. Also, she has been known, at 3 a.m., to think my hand has converted to terrorist and that it must be exterminated with extreme prejudice. Oh, the wake-up calls I've had.

This particular pet, also has some crazy times. I know all cats like to run around the house for no reason. But my cat has style. She will run, back arched and look of horror on her face, through the entire house at full speed for a non-stop continuum of terror for upwards of twenty minutes. When I say, through the entire house, I'm not exaggerating. She will run through the closet, into the bathtub, over the toilet, across the top of both couches, the tops of all the chairs, across the table and counter, through each bedroom, around the utility room, and repeat twenty to forty more times. Several times a day. It's no wonder she looks emaciated. She eats more than me, but looks like a third-world adoption kid from TV. Crazy does consume the calories.

And even though she is insane, we do get along. We have an understanding: She gives me stories, makes me laugh, and the occasional warm, fuzzy moment, and I continue to give her fuel for her rampages.

We're a sentimental household, we are.