In honor of my aunt Joanne’s milestone birthday today, I’d like to talk about . . . cats.
All of my aunts are cat people. I’m pretty sure my parents are, too. My sister prefers cats, I married a cat man, and though my brother-in-law is a dog person, we still love him despite this flaw. But back to cats. And my aunt.
On the farm, we had lots of felines running about. Tabbies and orange tabbies and occasionally a tabby/orange tabby mix. When Auntie Joanne got a Siamese, a whole new world opened up. If you haven’t experienced a Siamese cat, there’s one important thing you should know: they are talkers. Teesha would meow when she was hungry, scared, tired, bored, when she wanted to go outside, when she wanted to come inside, when her fur was ruffled, while giving herself a bath, and while sleeping. I’d never seen anything like it.
Auntie took all this in stride. I’d watch in amazement as she’d carry on a conversation with Teesha, responding to her meows as if they were carrying on a perfectly normal conversation. “Are you hungry?” Meow. “Maybe you wouldn’t be if you’d caught that mouse in the basement.” Meow. “Oh, sure, that old excuse.” Meooow! “Fine, I’ll feed you. But there’s mouse tartar waiting downstairs if you get hungry in the middle of the night.”
It was amazing. Auntie Joanne could talk to animals!
Some forty years later, I now deal with a cat who, quite frankly, won’t shut up. At 3 AM, Pugsley is talking. He’ll cry and swat my face in the middle of the night if he feels he needs attention. He’ll continue this behavior all through the morning, then well into the day and afternoon. As I’m cooking dinner, he’ll meow repeatedly, and when I’m trying to read, he’ll sit on my book and yowl some more. At these times, I think of my aunt. Specifically, I wonder how she didn’t strangle Teesha in her sleep.
Besides kitties, Auntie also has a love of babies. When my sister’s oldest was born, I’ll admit, I wasn’t prepared. How do I hold this thing? What if I drop him? What if he poops? It was terrifying. Luckily, Auntie was there to coo at Nathan and play silly games and make faces at him, giving my sister a much-needed break. I was perfectly happy to step back and let her take over aunting duties, figuring I could step in and do my part once he got a little older, like the teenage years. When my sister’s second child was born, it seemed only fitting that Evan was the spitting image of Auntie Joanne as a baby. (And now that the boys are well into their teenage years, I’m happy to report I never worry about dropping them or them pooping on me.)
Whenever we see Auntie, she first asks my sister how the boys are, (unless they’re standing right there in front of her, in which case she still coos at them and makes silly faces). Then she asks me how my cats are. I’ll complain about Pugsley’s tireless meowing, and she’ll nod knowingly. “Do you talk back to him?”
“Yes,” I’ll say, remembering how she and Teesha would talk/meow for hours.
“Welp, that was your mistake. Now he’ll never shut up.”
Terrific. Now she tells me.
Happy birthday, Auntie!
All of my aunts are cat people. I’m pretty sure my parents are, too. My sister prefers cats, I married a cat man, and though my brother-in-law is a dog person, we still love him despite this flaw. But back to cats. And my aunt.
On the farm, we had lots of felines running about. Tabbies and orange tabbies and occasionally a tabby/orange tabby mix. When Auntie Joanne got a Siamese, a whole new world opened up. If you haven’t experienced a Siamese cat, there’s one important thing you should know: they are talkers. Teesha would meow when she was hungry, scared, tired, bored, when she wanted to go outside, when she wanted to come inside, when her fur was ruffled, while giving herself a bath, and while sleeping. I’d never seen anything like it.
Auntie took all this in stride. I’d watch in amazement as she’d carry on a conversation with Teesha, responding to her meows as if they were carrying on a perfectly normal conversation. “Are you hungry?” Meow. “Maybe you wouldn’t be if you’d caught that mouse in the basement.” Meow. “Oh, sure, that old excuse.” Meooow! “Fine, I’ll feed you. But there’s mouse tartar waiting downstairs if you get hungry in the middle of the night.”
It was amazing. Auntie Joanne could talk to animals!
Some forty years later, I now deal with a cat who, quite frankly, won’t shut up. At 3 AM, Pugsley is talking. He’ll cry and swat my face in the middle of the night if he feels he needs attention. He’ll continue this behavior all through the morning, then well into the day and afternoon. As I’m cooking dinner, he’ll meow repeatedly, and when I’m trying to read, he’ll sit on my book and yowl some more. At these times, I think of my aunt. Specifically, I wonder how she didn’t strangle Teesha in her sleep.
Besides kitties, Auntie also has a love of babies. When my sister’s oldest was born, I’ll admit, I wasn’t prepared. How do I hold this thing? What if I drop him? What if he poops? It was terrifying. Luckily, Auntie was there to coo at Nathan and play silly games and make faces at him, giving my sister a much-needed break. I was perfectly happy to step back and let her take over aunting duties, figuring I could step in and do my part once he got a little older, like the teenage years. When my sister’s second child was born, it seemed only fitting that Evan was the spitting image of Auntie Joanne as a baby. (And now that the boys are well into their teenage years, I’m happy to report I never worry about dropping them or them pooping on me.)
Whenever we see Auntie, she first asks my sister how the boys are, (unless they’re standing right there in front of her, in which case she still coos at them and makes silly faces). Then she asks me how my cats are. I’ll complain about Pugsley’s tireless meowing, and she’ll nod knowingly. “Do you talk back to him?”
“Yes,” I’ll say, remembering how she and Teesha would talk/meow for hours.
“Welp, that was your mistake. Now he’ll never shut up.”
Terrific. Now she tells me.
Happy birthday, Auntie!
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