We Are Now Four

We are now four. Which qualifies as a household. (A two-bicycle household.) We are: one organist/crop and soil scientist; Oliver, one ancient fish who’d previously been overtaxing my parents’ welcome (a residual from when I left for college and Mum would take care of him until he probably died 6 months later—6 years later he’s still with us); Otto, Oliver’s live-in cleaning service; and now Hildegard Von Bingen, someone of the feline persuasion from the local shelter.  

Last night was Hildegard’s first night as Mansard roof-mate.

I’m hesitant to become one of those people who rattles everlasting about her pet as if her pet were somehow The Most charismatic or eccentric creature. And if one hasn’t met the star of the story then you just may not quite get it, but wait patiently to glowingly tell your own pet stories.  Pets bring us such comfort and entertainment this way, that we want to share about them. But I’m realizing this is not a unique feeling.

(I only really like hearing Daddy talk about Myra. Because both of them are into the next universe of strange. For instance: my Dad made me a bed that fog-horns and Myra eats...items. “Myra ATE my yoga pants” my Mom stated, in full disgruntlement, and I could only laugh because of the ridiculous nature of those words.)

Hildegard is named after the first female composer (back in those men-dominated days) from 1081. She wrote beautiful chants and poetry. I’d been explaining her origins to my crop and soil science friends, and just about everyone else. Except I met with Awesome Musical Alyce yesterday (the soprano of the “AaaaAAAaahhhh-shit!-Aaaaaaaahhhh!” singing) and I said, “Her name is: Hildegard” and before I could finish Alyce jumped in, “VON BINGEN!!!”  Yes.  

Hildegard is small, in mid-life, rescued as a stray from Trumansburg, and has Tabby-Tortoiseshell markings. This looks like someone painted stripes on her, became disillusioned with that style and went swipe-smear-swipe to smudge them out. She has a tiny spill of orange, a little chest-plate of white, and the rest is that romantic gray mottled fog of an English countryside.

I was groggily lying in bed last night and it was almost surreal to see a cat sitting there regarding me, then pushing her head into my hand. Having a cat in my Mansard Roof is like trying to develop a relationship with someone you don’t even know yet, but doing so in your own previously-determined space.  There’s a few things we need to decide terms on: for instance scratching, and the popcorn popper, and walking in each other’s ways. Right now she is my writing co-pilot, sitting by my feet and looking serene.

She curls back and forth around my hand and head-butts it, occasionally standing like a kangaroo to gain improved leverage.

It’s fascinating to feel what it feels like to not be alone in this Mansard roof, that my movements now influence another creature. She watched me with composed regard as I grated beets and chopped onions last night. Thankfully she did not flatten in abject fear when I fired up the popcorn popper (because that is integral to existence here) but only sat in the hall looking wide-eyed and small. Then she watched me dance. 

"That toy is not enticing but YOU sure are."

Head-butts in action make difficult photographs.