Saturday, February 4, 2012

Dispatches from Feline Nation: Week 20

Dear Harold and Orenthal,

Hey, guys. Ever since you came into our lives I've had front row seats for the Nature vs. Nurture home game. Pro nature: All that plucky morning joie de vivre. You must get that from your birth moms. We're accustomed to more blurry and shuffling around here. Performing that thing that is the opposite of a sun salutation. (Sun valediction?)

Most mornings I wake up to a variation on the following behavioral report from Chuck:

"Well, for awhile there Orin had Hal's back foot in his mouth."

Orin, you recently threw the greatest emo tantrum ever thrown by someone who doesn't play acoustic guitar. It started when you climbed from the floor, up the back of an office chair, across a built-in shelf unit and on to a window sill where you are not allowed for no real reason other than that we are mean and believe bigger rules mean better kittens.

Chuck removed you from your perch and you screamed. You screamed, Orin. Then you sprinted up the steps and into one of the bedrooms where you proceeded to wail at the injustice. Real tears. Real angst. Hal gave us a look like, "I can't believe you people," rolled his eyes and ran up to comfort you. It was all so dramatic that Hal, you skipped your bi-daily game of laser tag, presumably to teach us that you two are a team that cannot be bought with a single beam of red light dancing across the walls and down the steps.

We recently had the chance to go out in public. A date night. A reprieve from the daily grind of raising two toilet-curious beasts. Naturally, we spent the night talking about you.

"One of them," I said to our friends, "keeps taking our dirty clothes and putting them in the litter box." It's true. The litter box is in the laundry room and usually there is a dirty sock or a dirty T-shirt or, yesterday, my underwear partially buried in the sand.

"I'm not sure which one is doing it," I said.
"Oh, you guys know which one is doing it," GeoGrl said.
She was right. It's so perfectly you, Orin. An anonymous "Fuck you, and fuck your pink Hanes little boy shorts, too."

"They're driving me nuts," Chuck said, climbing into bed the other day. "Orin won't stay out of the window sills. I kept taking him down and he would jump back up. Then they started throwing curtain rods down the basement steps."

This meant a change in rules: You are now allowed, even encouraged, to climb on the window sills. It makes you guys happy and it makes us happy to not chase you with squirt bottles and the kind of clapping that keeps bears away in the woods. We do, however, draw the line at that move where you Superman from the mantle to the lampshade. I think that's fair. It's called compromise, Orin. Maybe your morning-cat mom mentioned it once before she prematurely booted you from her teat.

Aside from that, I love to watch the two of you cuddle on an office chair, bound together in a spoon. Shifting so you are hugging. Orin's little paw over Hal's little shoulder. Licking each other so hard. It's so interesting and intimate. Like young lovers who can't get enough of the tongues full of fur.

Cat Lithium Curiously Yours,

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