Thursday, July 24, 2008

Carmelita

Carmelita (Carly for short), is our tortoiseshell cat that we adopted as a stray over a year ago. Since then, she's grown up and had six kittens. Right now, she is not as close as a companion as she used to be in terms of affection. But she is always nearby. And she purrs occasionally when I scratch her head and give her a kiss on top of it. It reminds me of the times when she liked me as a young kitten.

Despite her reticence in her maturity, she is a good cat. And she listens. She knows I'm talking to her and will open her luminous golden green eyes to direct them towards me when I start speaking and then close them half way when I start to bore her. The only thing she does that I can't stand is scratch the carpet underneath doors; she hates doors and tries to dig a hole in the floor. And if I see her and tell her not to do it, she stops for a minute and waits. And does it again. Until I tell her to stop. And she does and then starts again. And then on and on we go at least five times when she gets that my no means no.

Right now, she's pawing at the sliding glass door and crying to go outside. She stops and lays down, bends her head backwards towards me and looks at me pathetically and chirrups her desperation. Even though she is now spayed, I don't like to let her out. I turn my back to her, and when I turn to look at her again, she's got her back to me, ears lowered in frustration and disgust. She is telling me that I should be at her beck and call. Or else.

When our golden retriever, Ginger, wants to go out, I ask her if she wants "outside". The minute I say it, Carly runs to the door. She understands the key word and knows that the door to the back yard will open soon. She also understands that when Ginger barks to come back inside after peeing, it is also a good time to sit by the door. Which is happening right now, with both of them sitting expectantly on both sides of the glass door, looking at me.

I'm not like Dennis, who has trouble keeping his eye on two things at the same time. I can hold Carly back while letting the dog in. If I can't see her, I can hear her. I got her a black collar with fake diamond studs and a little bell that gives away her location. Carly, in her vanity, adores her fancy collar but hasn't understood how it has been betraying her. Perhaps she believes me to be totally deaf, since human ears are inferior to animal ones. Just like a cat, she could never believe that I could possibly outsmart her.

For all the cats I've known and owned, she is certainly the smartest of them all. Unfortunately, for her, it's her arrogance that has begun to be her downfall. But I don't need to prove to her that I'm no moron, she becomes quite humble at breakfast and at dinnertime.

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