Mangled cat anxiety attack
Drip, drip, drip against the window…
I awaken from a dream about a dog that’s half alligator, and a missing cat. The entire dream plays out with the electric anticipation of a horror movie. At the end, I’m throwing the ball to the dog, it bounces high into the rafters…and on the top of a very high shelf is mangled cat.
Now I’m awake, with no kitties in sight! It helps to turn on the light, just to be certain.
Coon Cat waits by his bowl, the wide eyes of a disapproving king demanding, “Where is my food!”
So far, things look normal.
But….where is Other Brother Coon Cat?!! Did he crawl up into a shelf or under the car or someplace disgusting where he’s languishing, dying, and I’m helpless to save his stubborn little cat butt?
I do what I always do when I can’t find one of my cats, I take the half empty package of kitty treats outside, shake it like a maraca, and call out his name.
Nothing…nothing…nothing but rain drips.
“It was only a dream,” I remind my overly anxious brain.
“A dream is why you agreed to go on a date with the man who became your second husband,” My brain reminds me.
Yes, I remember how he used to insult me in a way that was later called sexual harassment. Yes, I remember waking up in a cold sweat after the nightmare I had where I was lying next to him, comfortable and happy. But hey, it ended well…sort of…except for the part where he died a slow, lingering death and I was helpless to save him.
But not all dreams are portents, and I’m praying that this particular dream doesn’t come true. After all, who in their right mind is going to trust a half alligator, half dog with their cat?
Back to the mangled cat anxiety attack.
Nothing is working. Nothing! You’d think that by this time I’d remember that calling a cat isn’t the same thing as a cat call.
I’m about to make the ultimate sacrifice. I reach for a can of the cheap, stringy salmon flavored cat food I buy from Dollar General that they insist upon. Sure, it’s only 3 for $1.00, but if I give in now, they’ll start waking me at 4am. And I’ll never sleep until 7 for the remainder of my life.
“MEEE-Raaaaar!” OBCC announces as he flies through the dog door at Mach 1. No damage, but if I put soap on him I could give him a bath and rinse him at the same time.
Nope. Ain’t goin’ there. I’d rather have skin left on my arms.
He saunters to his throne (his half of my desk) and, of course, I rub him down with a towel. After all, isn’t servitude the reason humans were created for cats?
OBCC takes 20 minutes to dry off in front of the heater, munching treats in unison with his brother. He leisurely stretches, walking out of the room as if I hadn’t just lost 2 years of my life worrying about him.
Cats. The only creatures I know who can shred a house and look at you like it’s all your fault.
Yep. Things are back to normal again.