Fight the Power

Consort has opinions about my cat-blogs. Or, rather, he has one opinion; upon coming in to the office and finding me writing, he'll sneak a glance over my shoulder and sigh "Oh. CAT-blog." With the seasoned ear of someone how has spent over a decade and a half parsing Consort-speak, I can tell you what this means:

"Quinn, my presence here in the house prevents you from being the genial pet-hoarder you long to be, but people who often write about their cats are only two steps above cat-ladies whose floors eventually give way from all the soaked-in cat urine. The next step down is sequinned cat-sweatshirts. Please don't make me love a woman sporting an abdominal glitter-kitty."

I answer this unspoken damnation with the dismissive wipe of a tape-roller over my hoodie (this being the "Office tape-roller," as opposed to the several "Closet tape-rollers" and the under-lauded "Car tape-roller"). I'd de-fur my lap while sitting at the computer but, of course, Squeakers is sitting there. Since I sit at the computer on one of those rolling exercise balls in a futile attempt to strengthen my abs and not get what a friend called "Blogger-Butt," you'd think I wouldn't have a lap. Squeakers would beg to differ. There's a thigh and over there is another thigh. Legally, somewhere in between is a lap, even if the legs happen to be a foot apart. If the ball shifting makes me constantly readjust my center of gravity well, that's what claws are for. It's as if we domesticated a box of syringes. I cut her nails, I swear. It's just that when I'm doing something selfish like not opening cans of wet food, Squeakers runs off and gets a mani-pedi where the secret ingredient is lasers; she cuts through me like room-temperature butter.

It's not mean, though. Oh, howdy, it's not mean. Diana likes me, but Squeakers wants us to move to a more tolerant country where we can finally make it legal. For the first year-- in recognition of Consort's allergy to cats and his incredible patience when it comes to my ferocious need for pets-- the rule was NO CATS IN THE BEDROOM EVER. We all understand that meant every time the bedroom door was opened, a feline would fly into the room as if from a giant slingshot, run for the bed, and throw off a cubic yard of fur. Within months Consort, who knows a lost cause when he sees one, amended the rule; they can visit during the day, but the air-purifier runs at all times and no sleeping there at night. Truly, that would have been the end of it, were it not for the fact that when I wake up in the night—either because nature or Daughter calls—I am never awake enough to remember “Say, between me and the place I want to go is a closed door.” The first full face-plow at 3:30 am had a certain graceless charm, if you like swearing and waiting to clot, but by the 8th example of moving force/opposable object, things needed to change. The air-purifier was ratcheted up and the cats slept where they liked. No more bruising occurred and peace reigned.

Well, sort of. The air-purifier is now set at a level where it’s not unlike living on a tarmac. This must have bothered Squeakers delicate feline ears, because she established a new policy; I sleep under the covers, next to my beloved, the one with the perforated upper-thighs. Consort came in one night to the sight of my sitting up reading and next to me Squeakers on her side, a front leg stretched protectively across my abdomen, snoring softly.

“They’ve won, you know,” he said conversationally.

"Of course they haven’t won, I whispered, “they’re pets. We’re still the final vote around here. Now get into bed quickly, because she doesn’t like when the quilt moves and she gets cold.”

I think he mumbled something about a sweatshirt but it was hard to hear over the air-purifier and Squeakers purring.