Monday, September 20, 2010
Charlie the Cat
My kitty cat, Charlie, and I go way back. Almost eleven years to be exact. Before kids. Before marriage. Before the dog. Before moving in together. Before hooking up. The H teases me about how much I used to spoil my cat, and how I used to freak out if he escaped from my apartment. Well, he was my baby and I waited twenty-five years for him. And those soft, white paws and pitchfork on his nose used to kill me. Not so much anymore. These days he's lucky if he gets a ten-second scratch behind the ears once or twice a week, and he freely roams our canyon with all manner of menacing wildlife. I just have nothing left to give, and no warts left to worry. Poor little guy. But rest assured he does get fed every morning. It just takes a little reminding.