Today's Joy: Where Codependency Meets Hard To Get.

Someone is pining for me tonight, Reader. It's not unusual. In fact, it happens most evenings, though, some are more passionate than others. Alas, it never happens the traditional way, with a lovely Juliet or Roxane up on a balcony and a Romeo or Cyrano de Bergerac pouring his heart out from the ground.

Instead, my needy (yet aloof ) tom cat yowls his loneliness from the upstairs landing each night and I'm the one on the ground. Not quite sure how this became a tradition. My cantankerous, pale orange tiger would rather I admire him from a distance most of the time.



But lately, he's playing more codependent than hard to get. He sits on the balcony where he can survey the whole first floor, and pontificates on all he feels is wrong with the world. Perhaps there's dry food in his bowl and he wants wet instead. Or, he has wet food and wants dry. Maybe his water bowl is low. Or the bedroom window, left open for his enjoyment, is now too drafty. Sometimes, he simply murps in a repetitive fashion.

But mostly, he wants me to come to bed. Now. Not to cuddle him--we never, ever, ever do that--but just so he can curl up on the bed several feet away, with his back to me. We have to maintain our personal boundaries, after all.



I've been asked many times why I put up with a notched-ear, old stray who hisses and swats as much as he purrs. If you aren't a cat lover, you'll never understand. If you are, whew! I don't have to explain. Some cats are like the bad boyfriends of our twenties--selfish & overly-dramatic. And we love them for the same reasons we loved the boyfriends--because they're intriguing, mysterious and know how to throw out just enough affection to keep us coming back for more.

You build history with a good cat, developing a type of commitment very different from the open, mutual affection you have with a dog. Bonding with a cat is kind of like living a scene from Love Story, except being in love means your cat never has to say he's sorry. For anything. Ever. In my case, it's a little more like There Will Be Blood. And biting.

Still, I wouldn't trade my ratty old crab-cat for any fancy, high-maintenance puss. I like that he always has an opinion. And that even when he swats my hand, he still prefers me to every other lowly human he meets. Besides, nobody else would put up with him.

So, here's to crabby cats! May they complicate our lives for many years to come!

Photos: Chunk, 2008.

Today's Joy: Feeling Good.
Worked hard today, Reader, and took care of everything that needed doing. Now it's time to relax and pay attention to the man in my life. The cat.

Today's Joy: Chunk.

Dear Reader, do you have a problem child at your house? Then you can probably relate. We have a problem Chunk. That is, we have a cat named Chunk.

How I met Chunk is a whole sordid story. The highlights include a cranky neighbor trapping him in a live animal trap and me sneaking onto her porch at 1:30 am to bust him out of jail. Then he was on the lam for a while. Eventually, Chunk and I went from an I'll-just-live-in-your-garage-and-wait-for-you-to-come-home sort of relationship to a full-on commitment. He is a 4-ish yr. old crabby orange tabby cat. Very crabby. And he's an Olympic-caliber complainer. There are few things in life that Chunk doesn't comment on. In the 3 years I've known him, I've heard a kitty dissertation on what's wrong with the world--namely what's wrong with living at our house.

True, a certain amount of "constructive criticism" is just part of having a cat. But you'd think an ex-feral stray might show a little more appreciation for his very comfortable living arrangements, sunny balcony for lounging, tempting array of food and 2 resident humans that are willing to cuddle. But, alas. We are too needy for Chunk. We want to pet him and heaven forbid--cuddle. This leads to daily tail-lashing, hissing, swatting, biting, crabbing, complaining and swearing (on Himself's part).

You're probably wondering where the joy is at this point. Chunk hates to move. He has been watching the boxes pile up in our apt. with great trepidation. Now that the move is eminent, he must be worrying he'll be left behind. So Chunk has done the only thing he can think of to keep us from leaving without him--he's become a cling-on. He sits with me, sleeps right up against me and can't be more than 2 feet away at all times. Shoot, he'll hardly let me use the ladies' room without beating down the door. He's stuck to me like lint.

For the first time in many months, I can cuddle him all I want. Ha! So, dear Reader, I am enjoying my neurotic cat's discomfort in a most un-Christian way. But at least, I'm finally getting some love.