A flibbertijibbet, a will-o’-the wisp, a finick?
I’ve been looking to early memories of my cat and G-rated cinema to navigate a recent twist in The Adventures of AL and the Bellyfulla Baby.
We have two cats, Chaka and Grü
He’s been an easy cat to love–big liquidy eyes, very sociable and extremely tolerant. Being me, of course, I always need to test the limits of his tolerance. So I’ve discovered over the years, for example, that he’ll let me lay him down flat on his side, put one hand above his back leg, and spin him like a merry-go-’round. He’ll even sometimes allow me to hike him through my legs, sliding and scrabbling across the floor, maybe meowing once but giving lie to the protest when he comes right back for more.
We joke that he’s the best of both feline and canine worlds … sociable like a dog but willing to use a litter box. Eight years into our cohabitation, he’s firmly established as a member of our family–with full rights and privileges.
Six months after we got him, however, he “acted out” in a way that at the time seemed to shake the foundations of our relationship. We decided he might appreciate some company, so we went and brought Little Kitty home from the shelter. Little Kitty has plenty of personality of his own, but that’s a story for another day. Suffice it to say we were in shock at the transformation in our gentle Chaka when we brought this other fuzzy beast through the door. He was suddenly furious and nasty, hissing and spitting and struggling to get past us to attack and presumably tear to shreds this at-that-point-quite-tiny kitten. It was hard to come to grips with the idea that the cat with whom we were growing so bonded could turn in an instant into something so scary and off-putting.
Between this week and last my dear, dear wife has undergone a transformation of her own. The snacker/grazer/appreciative inhaler is gone, replaced by someone whose primary response to food is varied and vivid expressions of disgust. Since I’m the cook in the family, this is deeply disturbing and anxiety producing for me. All the dishes that are part of my normal repertoire are suddenly and quite literally off the table. From glowingly excited about food, AL is suddenly sick of everything.
Pinning down the object of her appetite’s fleeting affection is, well, it’s a bit like trying to hold a moonbeam in your hand (click and listen … you know you want to).
When I’m with her I’m confused
Out of focus and bemused
And I never know exactly where I am
Unpredictable as weather
She’s as flighty as a feather
She’s a darling! She’s a demon! She’s a lamb!
She’d outpester any pest
Drive a hornet from its nest
She could throw a whirling dervish out of whirl
She is gentle! She is wild!
She’s a riddle! She’s a child!
She’s a headache! She’s an angel!
She’s a giiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrllllll!
I’m trying not to let myself get too wounded by the current rejection-to-acceptance ratio of my food offerings.
Fortunately if I were ever tempted even for an instant to wonder whether my dear partner is an asset to the abbey, if you know what I’m saying, there’s always that little voice piping up in the back of my brain:
I’d like to say a word in her behalf
Ana Lisa … makes me … laugh.
True dat.
p.s. I almost forgot to mention that food suggestions or recipe ideas are welcome. Heyelp!
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