Friday, July 12, 2013

I Shudda Stay'd in Bed

Believe me I tried.  The sky was just beginning to lighten when Smokey patted me with five of his twenty or so claws and complained that he was hungry. I ignored him for as long as humanly possible, but I needed to pee anyway, and there's a pill I have to take early in the day. So I crawled out of bed and staggered, half-blind, toward the kitchen. My legs work like two of those rubber pencils from the jokes store first thing in the day, and my eyes would not open, so not only did I have no control over which direction I lurched, I couldn't open my eyes enough to see where I was going.

I was aided in this adventure by 20 pounds of complaining furball twining his way through my legs as if he were winding a Maypole. I caught a corner and grabbed it like a lover, waiting for my legs and brain to make more than a tenuous connection. 

Pill taken, and cat food spooned into respective dishes (Sal2 woke up, crawled off the bed and wanted his breakfast as well)  I headed for the bathroom. Smokey will not allow me to attend the ceremonies of the toilette unattended, and shouldered his way through the door just as I closed it. He put his front paws on my knees and gazed into my eyes. I felt like a half-empty bag of rice.

I did not want to bend over and pick up 20 pounds of cat from the floor for fear of subluxating a rib or three. The claws dug more deeply into my knees. He is not a jumper. I held my breath and reached for him, but he didn't want to be picked up under his front legs, so he stood down and leaned against me.

I scooped him into my lap, where he laid on his back and gazed at me with the rapt adoration described in romance novels. He patted my face and gently bit my eyebrows. My right hip rolled in the socket and sank under his weight. I can't handle his weight any longer so I rolled him off onto the floor, did the paperwork and washed my hands. He followed me back to the kitchen, where he  apparently now feels it's safe to eat the breakfast I'd given him earlier. 

I wanted to go back to sleep, but the cats were ready for a long conversation, quite possibly about quantum physics or comparative religions. I eyed the bedroom door. They know this game. They looked from me to the door. The little one has a slick coat, I could see his muscles shifting in anticipation of the run. They know that they can be back on the bed and feigning sleep before I even get to the door. I remembered the new container of catnip I bought yesterday while shopping and pulled it out. Their delighted distraction with the two small piles of 'nip I put on the kitchen floor gave me time to get into the bedroom and close the door.

The sun was shining through the slots in the blind when Smokey began his 10,000 steps routine, on the bedroom door. He's worn a track in the door, scratching to get in. Tony grumbled and cursed for a half hour or so and then got up and let the little bastards in. They had no intentions of sleeping. I was briefly awakened numerous times when I was used as a landing/launch pad as the cats chased each other off and on and around the bed. Some time later five claws patted my arm over and over, and I opened my eyes enough to see Smokey's turquoise eyes looking into mine.

Tony was gone, and the bedroom door was closed. Smokey wanted out of the bedroom, as he cannot be separated from his kitten! By this time I am ready to kill all three of them. I am not a morning person, even when I feel well and I do not feel well today so I am more like a "Don't wake me until 11:00 and don't talk to me until NOON!" person. I ran some necessary errands and grocery shopped yesterday. It was hot, I felt lousy and now I am exhausted and in pain from one end to the other.
Mama's Protector

Mike Tyson couldn't have felt worse after ten rounds. Despite being swept thoroughly yesterday my house looks like I'm running a contraband alpaca farm. It looks like there is wall-to-wall wool everywhere, but it's just Smokey's grey "down". I'm trying to clip him, but he will only tolerate four or five minutes of the clippers and there's a bear rug of hair to get through on that cat. I've never seen such a dense coat on an animal!  But he is such a sweet boy. He seems to have begun feeling like my protector. The kitten, playing with a straw this morning, tossed it in the air and in grabbing for it sunk his claws into my leg, peeling back a scimitar of skin. I yelped and Smokey ran in from the kitchen, all big eyes and concern, assessed the situation and then crawled into my lap to give me kisses, love nibbles and cuddles.

Lesson? Point? None. Just frustration at feeling like I have been mowed down by a steam roller, at never being able to catch up, or keep up, with all the tasks I need to do, when I look perfectly healthy. Because my strength and abilities vary so much from day to day people assume I'm untrustworthy or lazy. I feel guilt when I do anything I enjoy because I feel I should be using that energy to do something that needs doing, like scrub the tub or clean out the fridge.

On days like today I feel shame for being lazy and slothful, an idea drummed into my head by my mother and reinforced by accusations from sadistic physicians and careless remarks by family and friends. I'm usually okay with all of it, but there are days when I'm so tired it overwhelms me. 

As we are prone to say, "First world problems." I should be thankful to even be alive, pain or no. In any less developed part of the world I'd be a goner.  I'm reasonably certain I'll feel better emotionally in a couple of days, which seems like an eternity as I see the work I need to do pile higher and higher, but there's nowt to do but wait it out. And this too will pass. 

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