By all means, click to enlarge that photo of Elby returning from being a successful hunter. He’s captured the ball in his mouth and is bringing it back to me to lay at my feet and received high praise for being such a mighty hunter. Uh-huh.
This is the same cat, who, at 1:00 a.m. last night, launched a bank shot off the back of my head, using all 8-16 nails in his paws… Is it cat joie de vivre? Do I harbor a fast-growing domestic terrorist in my own home? Is he insane? YES to all three questions. For a woman who packs 12 pairs of socks for a two day trip, gently patting and massaging gobs of Neosporin into my scalp is an affrontery of the highest order. Okay, not quite as bad as when Dyssa, my former security adviser, attacked my bare feet after I got out of the shower one morning, resulting in having antibiotics being pumped into my body through a stent due to infection from multiple cat bites. Don’t believe me? I took photos back in 2009:
You might think that the common denominator between these two felines is me. Yes, but. I maintain these were unprovoked attacks and that I was supremely spiritual in that I let both of them live.
Oh, this cat! He’s a foot longer than when he arrived, weighs at least another three pounds and, according to the Vet, he will attain 15-20 lbs. at full growth and be thought svelte when he does! Here’s a snapshot of Elby, who is sleeping the sleep of the just as I write this:
He’s not dead, I assure you. Elby lives in the moment and last night holds no memories for him, obviously. All is well in Elby’s world. My scalp still hurts and I have had a headache since I awoke this morning. Whining.
Still and all, there are moments when I wonder if Elby is God in disguise. He is my shadow. He is fascinated by everything I do, goes everywhere I do, and has taught me that “No, Elby!” has no true meaning. He is a man that way. He is teaching me forgiveness on a minute-by-minute basis. He literally climbs the walls of my home and tries to knock the paintings off the walls. When I wouldn’t talk to him last night after he left wounds in my head, he climbed higher than he ever has and that is saying something. He leapt from the floor to the kitchen counter to the top of the refrigerator and then leapt to the ledge atop the kitchen cupboard above the refrigerator and cried pitiously for me to rescue him or recognize this magnificent feat of cat pole-vaulting. Don’t worry. Of course, I checked on him and he gazed down at me in both pride and “how do I get down?” mode. He’s a boy. Argh! I was still rubbing Neosporin gently, very gently into my scalp and I didn’t care if he slept up there… The only discipline that works with Elby is to ignore him and then praise him for getting down, down off the mantle, down off the stove, down off the counters, down off the soon-to-be-discovered 8 foot tall bookcases…. Oh, Gawd, maybe the dust will hold the books in place…
And yet, when I throw his balls for him and he races across the room, catching them in mid-flight, batting them from here to there in a hunter’s glee, then carefully clamping his jaws on them and trotting back to me to drop it at my feet, winding around my legs for a quick hug and rub before the next toss… well, it does a Mom proud, doesn’t it?