Oskar, our original cat, is crying in order to alert me to the fact that I have not fed him his special food in two days. He has hard food around all the time, but the soft stuff makes him lose his little cat mind. It is so special to him that he knows what the words special food mean. Even just a special can get him grubbing around my feet and head-butting my ankles to show me. that. he really. loves me. won't. I fecking. feed him. already. I am the cruel woman who keeps his special food from him in the big humming box that sometimes closes on his head. His existence is truly pitiable.
He jumps up onto the bed, (which I now think of as our living room bed, because I moved it in here pre-surgery so that I could have a cushy recuperation with all the amenities and a bay window), and he cries plaintively and pokes at an edge of the blanket with his nose. He wants me to make a tent for him out of my legs and the blanket, because he loves to lie in a tent for thirty seconds several times a day where he can compare the scents of our respective crotches and lick my heels.
When I take a bath, Oskar patrols the edge of the tub, because he hopes that I will only fill it halfway so that he can crawl into my lap. I do it for him, because there is little else he loves more that sitting on naked people a couple of inches above a hot pool of water. It is a good idea to avoid bending too far forward, because he will take a back if he cannot get a lap, and then you are stuck there while he eats the caulking he cannot normally reach, and you hope with everything you've got that his very clawy self doesn't take a back-raking slide into the water below.
He just licked my french fries.
I was woken up in the wee hours this morning by a new game he had invented called Put Things In The Purse. It involved taking cat toys and bits of cardboard, putting them in my purse, killing them in there, and then taking them out. Repeat. Now the inside of my purse is furry. And it has a stuffed mouse in it.
His real talent is undoing zippers. When he was a kitten, he mostly used it to undo the fly on my jeans when I took a nap. He once spent an entire weekend in my father's crotch just so that he could have the satisfaction of undoing that zipper three days later. Now, though, he knows that behind every zipper, there could be yarn, and yarn needs to be hunted down and killed until it has run through every room in the apartment and been chewed through at two-foot intervals so that it can never meet with its infernal, scarf-shaped destiny.
The best is when he tries to suckle in the middle of the night and a sex dream turns into real, live grossness. Mmm babies,
* That's the best thing ever. No.
* I've been saying mmm babies like you would use the words cripes or hot damn. It is used in sentences like this: Mmm babies, is it ever hot in here! or Mmm babies, what I wouldn't do for a million dollars right now.