Black likes to sniff my mouth.
It’s Sunday, hot and sticky, and I have given up on being environmentally correct by turning on the air conditioner and schlumping uselessly in my room. Next to me is my noisy black cat, variously yowling his head off, sniffing my maw, biting my elbow when I type too vigorously, purring like an overheated generator, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Behind him, his brother-in-crime Poppy is decimating my bedpost with deep dragging gouges. I clap and shriek, but quite half-heartedly. I’ve long resigned myself to accepting the notion of the temporal world, the immateriality of material things, the false attachment to physicality and ownership. In other words, the cats will destroy everything.
The last I saw Curly, he was rolling about on the floor outside my room. Curly’s undereye wet patch is here again this morning, despite my careful ministrations last night. He has a leaky eye, an almost continuous weep. Apt metaphor for his difficult life? (Well he shouldn’t be weeping NOW, anyway.)
Cuppy, my Rapunzel, is of course poetically locked behind the door to her lair, and what was once upon a time a TV room meant for humans. Prison or haven? She’s a bit like an illicit mistress – secreted away in the merciless daylight, and brought out in a warm loving bundle to my bed to spend the night.
(Considering I’m her mother, that was a really shitty analogy.)