Sunday, 25 January 2015

Yelly Cat, an affection experiment

I adopted myself a tabby cat a few months back. The intention was my attempt at reconnecting with Affection and/or maybe just People In My Space. Not sure how or why but currently I find myself in a place where I am unconsciously (and sometimes consciously) avoiding the human touch. Is it as simple as I'm just plain touched-out from years of mommying & partnering?

The cat is a Senior in the feline world, though we're not really sure how old. At the SPCA her previous owner reported Jazzy's age as 10. In the complete adoption package was a detailed sheet on her micro-chipping. Apparently miss high-tech fancy cat is really an east coast gal and a mere 7 years old. Nonetheless I only paid the senior's adoption fee and that pleased me. A bargain is a bargain.

When we were perusing potential adoptee kitty cats, behaviour was an important factor. Jazzy won our hearts as affectionate and a communicator. I had visions of us cuddled up, sweet lil kitty cat in my lap, blissfully purrrring as I scratch around her ears, under the chin. Indeed this sweet little animal was going to lead me down the path of allowing...

Seriously, have I not learned yet that rarely does anything turn out as we envision?

Yelly Cat meows constantly and loud. And she snuggles alright. My head is her preferred snuggle destination whether I'm sitting in my rocker chair, office chair, couch or lying in bed.
I have an aversion to my head being touched. I used to be really OCD about the whole thing ... so bad that I wouldn't even walk under a tree overhanging the sidewalk for fear of some invader, possibly of the worm or insect kind, that was watching, waiting for some oblivious earthling to pass under and become their new home.
I'm not a clean freak however I know the kind of 'dirt' animals leave behind. Look at a cat bed. Look at a dog bed. That Yelly Cat is shedding all that grunge where I lay my head every night. And I know I roll over and have my face buried therein. Yuck.

Inevitably as I'm drifting off Yelly Cat, motor running, completely unaware of any boundaries, positions herself half on my head, and as she kneads her paws she's pulling my hair. Oh for gawds sake. This was supposed to be a pleasant experience. Here and there she sneezes. Sick. What was that I said about a bargain?

I think of people talking about their cats bringing them little gifts from the woodlands. A dead bird, a rat, a mouse, some sort of offering. Another perspective to that scenario is one of You're Next! That in mind I find myself lying in bed, Yelly's paw poised less than an inch from the corner of my eye; dare I move too suddenly else I feel the wrath of a kitty scorned by way of a claw to the eyeball. Take That!

This experiment has not helped the cause. Back to the drawing board...