It’s so long since I blogged here at WryVita I can be utterly confident that no-one, but no-one is still hanging round to read my musings so it’s you and me now, Blackie.
I took this pic of her about half an hour ago while I was writing feverish lists of things to do, turning on the dishwasher with my left foot, answering emails with my right brain and tapping for emotional freedom using my fingers and body parts.
While Blackie just sat. Thinking a little but mainly just sitting. Mike Neill described it well in this morning’s newsletter – the healing bliss of complete contentment. We all want that, don’t we?
Talking of cats, I’ve realised in the last few weeks that I’ve turned into a mad old cat lady though I’m convinced I’m still a little young for feline-related senility so I’m going to have to watch this; it crept up on me like a cat stalking a little innocent robin – oh no, there I go again.
Blackie, Fluffy and Monty arrived chez nous at the age of around 7 weeks. My husband took them off a customer’s hands and when I saw them I could see why she wanted rid of them. They weren’t the healthiest looking kittens though naturally, they still had that new-born cuteness all cats, dogs and humans have as nature’s guarantee we will love and care for them even when they are so full-on needy that you can’t focus on anything else.
Fluffy was so poorly in fact that the vet was categoric that the best place for him was cat heaven. Instead, I brought him to her for daily hydration injections, ministered regular Vicks steam baths and let him live inside my jumper till the skin and bone turned into a healthy little cat. He only has one eye but is now the biggest and most playful of the cats.
Monty was the tabby, always feminine and loving towards us and merciless towards mice, birds and butterflies. Sadly, we lost her in the Great Weasel War just a couple of months ago.
Blackie was the black sheep-cat of the trio. She wasn’t sick enough to have to spend lots of time caring for her but she always had a runny nose, sharp claws and no people skills. Feed me and keep away, I don’t need you, her body language said.
So I never gave her any attention; fed her and left her to come and go as she pleased. Recently though things have changed.
The cats were banned from upstairs for a long time because with a total of four (I’ve not yet introduced you to Junior) there was too much messing around going on. I’d be downstairs on the phone to a client and I’d hear ‘stuff’ being thrown round the (wooden) floors and marathons being raced and then they’d settle down in the airing cupboard and get locked in for days at a time.
But when Monty (God rest her soul) disappeared, our routine changed a bit. With the colder nights the cats were much more likely to want to be in at night and Blackie took a liking to my nice jersey duvet covers. She got a bit of a shock the first night I got into her bed but she was too comfortable and warm by then to move off.
So now she’s become my constant companion, even while retaining that feline independence. Right now, she’s sleeping at my feet. She’s curled up, still and content, dreaming no doubt of that nice warm duvet waiting for her tonight.
It looks like the healing bliss of complete contentment and in that, she is a perfect furry role model for any of us who believe complete contentment can only come from the contents of a Harrods, Brown Thomas or Macy’s carrier bag.