November 12, 2012 § Leave a comment
Mickey is a golden figure, etched in gray fluff. She feels above her domain, not in control, but stretching across–like a lion strolls the savannah. There is no surface in the apartment she does not know. She knows them all well. Lick some and stalk others. Lie on the cool expanse of this hallway, in the summer. She finds snacks in corners, and she does not feel the need to share that information with me. If she doesn’t jump on counters or desks like other cats, it’s because she is confident of what’s there, and it doesn’t matter. In this way she is American cat. When I hold her, she surveys these unimportant foreign lands over my shoulder.
Mickey is not interested in human snacks, because she does not consider them real food. “Maybe if you dried it up, crumbled it, maybe,” she says. “I would take the bread. But I have no real affinity for dairy.” She does not register it as edible and dismisses it. It’s a form of elitism I have become accustomed to.
Cuddles is a different matter. Cuddles is a main axis for Mickey, along with Funtimes and Crumbs. Cuddles is a precious commodity, the crude oil which she cannot procure herself. She is desperately addicted to Cuddles. I have given speeches about freeing herself from her dependence on foreign Cuddles. It does no good. She cries at any closed border, invades, declares sovereignty of me while I sleep. Who authorized this? But you cannot reasonably converse with an addict.