Sylvia Cat (edited)

It's not totally clear yet ... but that title is actually punny. Like think of Sylvia Plath. Except if Sylvia Plath were a cat. And if "cat" and "Plath" were the same word. Um, yeah.

Okay, anyway ...

My cat knows when I'm about to leave town. I don't know how, but she does. It must be something I'm giving off ... a certain kind of nervousness. She gets morose. Her head hangs low. She won't leave my side. She looks at me like she does when I'm eating ice cream--a slow and solemn stare. When the suitcase finally comes out, it's all over. Then she's like, "See, I KNEW it." When I was packing for Mexico, she spent the afternoon sitting in the suitcase. I don't think it was that she wanted to come with me ... but more that she knew I couldn't finish packing if she sat there, determined, on top of the socks and t-shirts. When I lifted her up and put her on the bed, she must have thought, "Drat! Foiled again!" (I really do hope cats say or, at the very least, think "drat"--because it rhymes with cat, and rat ... and cats should only speak in words that end in -at.)

For the last few days, Kittie has been unbearably pathetic. The stares. The listlessness. The WOE IS ME of it all. What's so heartbreaking is when I toss her ball past her and you can tell that she only decides to chase after it to humor me. Or when I give her a treat and you can tell she doesn't REALLY want it. "How could you DO this to me?!!" "Why do you HAVE to leave?" It's interesting that she knows the difference between a long work day and a full-fledged trip.

(And, wait, I guess she'd say something more like, "What! Cat at flat?!! SHAT!!!")

While I was doing the dishes earlier this evening, I noticed that Kittie was sitting in the corner of the kitchen--tucked into a small space between the wall and the radiator box. I gave her a couple of, "Hi Kittie!"s and then turned back to do the dishes. When I turned back to look at her, I couldn't see her head. She had also coiled herself up into a tiny ball. I said, "Kittie ..." I said, "Kittie ..." again. Nothing. "Kittie ..." Still, nothing. I washed the soap from my hands and went over to her. She had put her head through a gap at the bottom of the radiator box. NOW does the title make sense?

She mewed cutely when I went up to pet her ... withdrawing her head. I don't think that she was trying to commit caticide or anything ... but, you know, I thought the story would make for a good blogpost.

And, plus, I wanted to be able to create some way to talk about how scared I am about this trip to California, and thought it would be easier if I did so through my funny little cat. I don't know what to expect. I know I can't prepare myself. The greater part of this weekend, I was able to get my mind off of it all by working and thinking, thinking, thinking of other things (you know who you are, and thank you, sweet). I was able to fool myself, but clearly my cat saw right through me.

Not with the head in the radiator theatrics. That was just funny.