Prrt. Enngh? Mowrr!
It’s around 3:00 a.m. Little feet bat at my face. Shallow, snorty breathing is upon my ear. If I don’t groan awake, my husband will. No use to complain, protest, or do anything but what the little voice grumbles for.
The 13-year-old boy does not respect bedtimes. Nor does he care when his parents are asleep. We’re at his furry little mercy. We know it. He knows it.
Maybe he wants under the blanket with us, or wants to make a cushion out of our backs, chests or heads.
His cat breath is that of dead fish and his diet of kibble, but just try brushing a cat’s teeth, people. I mean, as much as we care about the Milton cat’s oral health, we prefer to keep our blood inside our bodies as often as possible. It’s just one of those pesky things. Tomato, to-mah-to and all.
My husband Kris knows he can’t protest the night demands. Milton the cat was here first. It was Milton and me against the world, a single girl and her cat. When Kris and I first got together, I made it clear that the cat was a package deal.
While Kris had always been an animal lover, he’d claimed to be more of a dog person. (I love dogs too, but our small home/no yard/schedules wouldn’t make for a fair dog domain).
Milton had met previous suitors with disdain, usually with supreme aloofness and the cruel butt-in-the-face penalty. And damn if he hadn’t been right.
Near Instant Approval
With Kris, his aloofness was brief. Cursory sniffs evolved into head-butts. Before long they were TV buddies, with Milton parked on the couch next to Kris’s leg.
I did not realize they shared the same affinity for stupid movies that had little more than explosions in them. Had I come home one day to see them both sitting in their underwear with a beer in their respective hand/paw, I probably would’ve just walked on by like it was just two dudes having dude time. They’d become buddies that fast.
As with the others before, Milton had been right… my search for a husband and a cat dad was over.
With Milton’s obvious blessing, Kris and I got married a mere eleven months after we met. We would have loved it if Milton had been able to be in the wedding party. All he’d have needed was a bow tie; he’s already in a perma-tux with his pure black coat.
But a car ride is the one of the few things that breaks Milton’s aloofness. We’re talking peeing, pooping, barfing and wailing, and that’s all before we get 20 feet away from the house. No one wants to deal with cat meltdowns on such a festive occasion, and Milton was content to have the place to himself for a few hours.
Soon it’ll be sunrise, and Milton will demand that one of us gets up and tends to his food dish. No arguments arise. We’ll get up, sigh groggily, and spend another day tending to a boy cat’s demands. And be glad for every second.