Friday, August 17, 2012

Memorial Repost: Nepeta Cataria [originally published 8.17.2010]

Retired educator, here. I'm in severe pain and managing to piece together a few consecutive hours of sleep could only help. To that end, I took a Lunesta last night, and almost enjoyed falling asleep. Looking back with fondness at those moments, when I woke 45 minutes later, I knew I was... screwed again! So it was another up-and-down night. Still, it was fun cavorting with the huge fuzzy-green lunar moth that flitted around my head, leaving trails of questionable, slightly oily, vapor.

When the felines convinced me it was time to get up this morning, I stretched out my arm, feeling for my glasses. You know, the $379 glasses that I just got last month? Guess who likes to steal spectacles? Yes, our little idiot, the Dobster. I took the bedroom apart – then expanded the search. By the time Fred got up, I had a headache (probably from having to wear an old pair of glasses) and a slight, ummm, attitude. He was immediately drafted for the cause and seemed very eager to help, as he stood there mumbling and scratching himself, inquiring as to the date and time.

So he’s crawling around and under things, armed with one of his best flashlights (one day, I will do 100 words on Fred and the flashlights). Butt in the air, crawling right behind him, sweet and chipper, was... Dobby. Were he not a cat, I would have sworn he was mocking us.

Please note that breakfast had not been served to the feline contingent. To that end, Sam-I-Am felt that he might inspire me by eating a few pages out of the John Grisham novel I’m reading. Chomp, rip! Chomp, rip!

For her part, Marmy peed on the sofa, and -- in the name of parity, I guess, on one of Fred’s pillows.  God forbid she should feel left out.

She did what she does best.

Very crafty, very crafty. My attention thus divided by these wily cats, I believe they used these moments of frenzied confusion to transfer the purloined glasses to a new location.

But then, that would sound paranoid, bordering on psychotic. So, of course, I did not see Marmy actually sporting them as she sauntered past me toward my office, her fluffy tail swirling eddies of air. (She handed them off to Dobby, who absentmindedly squirreled them away in an Izod eye case, as he sat talking on the phone to their Grand Kitty PoohBah, evidently the mastermind behind this heist.)

Cough. Ummm. Did *I* write that?

Did I mention that I took a sleeping pill? One, I think.

Sammy said, “Girl, would you get your opposable thumbs together, open those kibble containers, and serve up some breakfast? And, you know, Fred looks like he could use a stiff cup of coffee. C’mon! Move it, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” So I fed and watered everyone, ground some beans, washed a few dishes, and finally brewed a pot. “That’s better,” cooed Sam-I-Am, my beloved boy.

It’s hours later, now. They have me pinned in the bed. Dobby is draped over my left thigh, Marmy is nestled between my legs, and Sammy is curled up next to me, eyeing me over his paws. There’s no way out. I managed to snag my laptop. This is my only hope. Maybe someone out there will notify the authorities that there is a woman, poiseless and glasses-less, a pitiful physical specimen, a whiny gimp, being held hostage by one domestic long hair known for her “*ack*:*ack*” rap, one domestic short hair (whose head is alarmingly small in proportion to his body), and by one large male who is not a Russian Blue but believes that he really, really ought to be.

Fred seems to have left the premises. If, indeed, the world has gone as topsy-turvy as I suspect, he is finishing the mowing job he promised The Cistercians back when Spring was young, in advance of the resurrection.

{What am I, delusionalDrugged?  Wait.  Oh, yeah!}

It is my belief that Fred has been successfully co opted by the cats. I heard snippets of a conversation between Fred and a cooing Marmy – something about fresh tuna, whole cream, and – sadly – a demand for more better nip, with fewer stems and more buds... God forbid that the cops stop him.

I wonder how much bail might be for possession of nepeta cataria.

Bianca Castafiore never has these kind of problems.

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