Much as I love my three cats and much as they entertain me, there are times when they show up and, I hate to say it, just plain get in the way. Each has her own special time and unique style of being a pest.

Take Bonita, for instance. She sleeps next to me most nights. She can be peacefully snoozing somewhere (such as on my new sweater), but by the time I've brushed my teeth and reached the bed there she is again, patiently waiting for me to settle down so that she can jump up and take up her post on the edge. I do like having her with me--her 16 or more pounds of dead weight acts much as a doorstop and keeps me from rolling out of bed. But a dead weight is what she is. She won't budge for any reason, not even when I urgently have to go the bathroom at 3 AM. She just lies there, body tightly curled, eyes glued together, and I have to wriggle out of the covers. (Trying also not to disturb Thistle, who has most likely been sleeping between my legs. The other side of course is blocked by my husband, who is about as mindful of my need as Bonita.) When I return I wriggle back under the covers, careful not to dislodge any of the sleepers, sliding one leg on either side of Thistle and giving Bonita and husband each a pat. At this point Thistle usually springs from the bed and Bonita slithers off the side.

Bonita also has an uncanny way of knowing when I'm on the computer. The minute I sit down and log on, here she comes again, ready to occupy my lap and keep me at arm’s length from the keyboard. I actually have a pretty comfortable computer setup, but because of Bonita I'll probably wind up with carpal tunnel syndrome. Not to mention my lower back pain, exacerbated by having to twist sideways because Bonita doesn't fit under the keyboard. Because I'm sitting sideways I can only type with one hand, so I'm slowed down considerably, and of course with the unoccupied hand I might as well be petting Bonita.

Thistle is usually a trial in the morning, when she can't seem to decide whether she wants to go out, stay in, eat, not eat, have a scritch, or what. She just knows she doesn't want to stay in bed any longer. Nor does she want anyone else to stay there. She vaults from the bed and onto the dresser, looking for small objects that will make a satisfying plunk when she knocks them off. That doesn't get us up. (Since the time that she knocked a small museum-reproduction horse into the wastebasket and, unnoticed, it got thrown away, we leave nothing breakable or precious on the dresser.) Now she jumps on the bed, bolts across our legs, and hops off the other side. Then repeats it in the other direction. She’s beginning to get our attention. Next she turns her attention to the shelf above the bed. When she knocks the watch off onto the bed, I sigh and open my eyes. Obviously, it’s time. Here she comes again, racing across the bed. I get up. Downstairs, she whines till I follow her, thinking that she will lead me to the door. Instead she goes to the middle of the living room and sits down. I got up for this?

Then there’s Spicy. She comes running whenever I'm in the kitchen. When I rattle a dish, even if it’s only to wash it, when I open the refrigerator or chop food on the butcher block, there she is under my feet, rolling on the rug or making tunnels under it. Have you ever seen the ads for pedigreed kittens, “raised underfoot”? This is supposed to be an advantage? Spicy is not a pedigreed cat but she must have been raised underfoot–she’s been there ever since. Oh, and have I mentioned the teakettle? She flies to the kitchen whenever the teakettle whistles, paces the rug below the stove, and talks to the singing kettle till I get there. When I arrive she talks to me instead. I think she’s saying, Make it stop! But next time it whistles, there she is again.

Well, Bonita was a little late tonight. She’s just arrived and is now warming my knees. My one-handed typing is rapidly deteriorating, so I think I'll stop here. Oh, but I wanted to tell you that I've come up with a new name for them, a kind of surname, an all-purpose name that fits any one of them when she joins me so predictably. It’s Ewigan!

Copyright © Lynda Goldsmith
October 19, 2000