I do actually have serious things I want to write about but I am feeling somewhat low on the motivation and energy front. The absence of those two makes for poor inspiration, in that I have ideas for topics, but I cannot find the spark that seems to inspire that organic flow of words that helps me write. My Ideas Fairy must have gone on holiday or is on strike. Hopefully if I can get a couple of nights of decent sleep I might find my writing game again.
In the meantime, I snapped this photo the other day with my old phone. I have no idea what he was thinking trying to steal mine. Doesn’t he know the new one has a fingerprint scanner? So even if he did try to put his paws all over it, he can’t get to my sensitive information. Or my super secret stash of terrible historic romance kindle novels. Oops, did I say that out loud?
He’s now curled up next to me, pretending for all the world like he didn’t try to steal my phone yesterday, or my dinner this evening. While he’s not the cleverest of cats, he really does live up to his namesake with his aloofness. It does make me rather extra happy when I consider how he does demonstrate attachment by always sitting next to me, even if he refuses to sit on my lap or curl up in the bed with me. I always laugh about it a little whenever I end up re-watching one of the Pride & Prejudice adaptations. I always think that if I could, I would have a second cat, a ginger tom named Mr Bingley who would have to be a gregarious, laid back cuddler to live up to the name. Alas, we are a single cat family, both due to space considerations, and The Mister’s sensibilities. For a man who grew up with no pets and does not have that irrational obsession with having an animal companion, he’s done rather well with our cat. Getting him was a mutual decision for us on the understanding that I was the one responsible for looking after the furball, though he willingly steps up during the odd times when I need help, or when I was pregnant and advised not to scoop kitty litter (and bending over was, frankly, beyond my ability anyway).
I grew up always having a cat in the household until I was eight years old and we left Russia, leaving my beloved calico Inkblot (Клякса) behind with friends. From then, until almost seven years ago when Mr. Darcy came home with us from the shelter, I was cat-less. Either we were living in rented apartments, or I was away in boarding school or college, or abroad. However, I had never lost that love of having an animal in the house. So with some reluctance, The Mister eventually agreed to indulge me. Mr Darcy and The Mister coexisted in a state of mutual suspicion for a while, but eventually armistice was declared, and now the two are like old, retired adversaries – pretending the disdain is mutual while stealing head scratches and belly rubs when no one’s looking. It helps that Mr Darcy is incredibly non-destructive for a cat. He never displayed any inclination to chew wires or climb curtains, so our only serious challenge at the beginning was preventing him from scratching certain objects like our landlord’s couch.
But in any event I am not surprised, because cats, aloof as they are, have a way of worming themselves into the heart of anyone who has the slightest bit of empathy. Well, for some it is more likely to be dogs, or another sort of creature, but animals in general have a way of bringing out kindness and compassion.
Well, maybe most animals. I strongly suspect that our neighbour’s chihuahua is actually the devil’s incarnate. I mean, there is no way it is possible for a creature to contain so much spite and bitterness and hate in such a tiny body and survive unless some sort of unholy power was involved. I think chihuahuas must have innards that contain a secret gateway to another dimension where they store all that hatred of humanity which allows their bodies to withstand the force of so much negative feeling. It’s like an iceberg – you see just the tip above the water, and most of it is below the surface. Only in this case you see a small fraction of the dog’s bitterness and the rest is hidden inside a parallel dimension accessible only through the chihuahua’s lower intestine or something.
Aaaaand I think that’s a sign that I really need to wrap it up and go to bed. Mr Darcy has left and come back now. He likes to give the impression that he’s only next to me to take advantage of the fleece blanket that he likes to knead, but I know that after I go to bed he will tiptoe into our room and then spend a part of the night on our bedroom windowsill despite the fleece blanket being available on the couch. But I let him pretend that I don’t know that.
Wouldn’t want him to think his aloof reputation has been compromised.