My Cat is a Crying Piece of Modern Art
There’s a cat under my feet. She’s ours so I can’t evict her. Of the nine cats I’ve owned throughout my life, she’s the one that convinced me I’m a dog person. She’s like a needy, draining house guest who never leaves.
I brought her home so it’s my fault she calls this place hers. I should have known that she was a crier. That triangular-shaped head should have been a clue. The face of a Siamese. She cries like one. Morning, noon and night. Neighbors can hear her. And once, during a business call, my husband’s co-worker asked if we had a newborn baby.
No, there is nothing wrong with her. I’ve checked. And we feed her plenty. In fact, she looks like a walking Picasso painting with her tiny triangular face and her large, round body. A crying piece of modern art.
But she’s cuddly. She hoists herself into my lap, her claws like tiny ice pics tearing every pair of pants I own, lodging into my pasty winter white thighs in the process. Or she’ll appear out of nowhere and starts clawing at, and pulling my hair. So she’s affectionate.
Affectionate as she cries in my ear. Like Barry Gibb. There’s a BeeGees song in my head. Twentyfour-seven.
As a matter of fact, I was going to have my daughter’s boyfriend paint a portrait of our falsetto crying cat behind a microphone. I thought it would be funny.
One day when he had nothing better to do said boyfriend painted a portrait of my other cat sitting on a velvet pillow wearing a crown on her head and a jewel-studded collar like the true princess she was.
Here is the portrait of our cat Emma:
So I thought it would only be fair if my town crier also had her portrait done. But then my daughter and her artistic boyfriend broke up. Opportunity lost.
So here’s my own portrait of Ducky the town crier:
So why is she so unhappy? With coyotes around, we can no longer let her come and go as she pleases. She has to stay inside at night. Three years after the rule change she still resents us and cries even louder after we go to bed just to get back at us.
To muffle the sound, we made up a nice spot for her in the laundry room. Her own suite with a soft bed, water, food and a separate litter box in a closet. It’s at the other end of the house with four doors separating us. We can barely hear her.
Until she found a way to get under the house from the laundry room closet. Now she can hear us talking or me typing above and she runs through the crawlspace to where we are. And she cries.
So here I am. It’s five a.m. and I have a crying cat under my feet. The sun will rise in two hours. The coyotes will retreat then. Add an extra hour just in case, and she can go outside. Until that time she’ll cry. It’s not as loud as if she was next to me pulling at my hair or clawing my pants and my winter white skin. But I can hear her loud and clear. How deep is my love? Not very deep.