The dim lit room, when all is at peace in the hush of late evening, is my refuge from all things expected. It often times finds me stroking my calico across her cheek and back neck while her soulful eyes gaze into mine with such sublime ecstasy. To think of a cat as solitary, is to not have known the cat at all. Some of my best friends have been cats. I know this one is.
She will attack play as if you’re the prey, and when one attempts to make her do what she simply does not want to do, well…there are consequences to pay. None the less, when she chooses to lie upon my lap, an angelic cherub is gracing my presence. She’s rather amazing, this little feline of perfection and imperfection.
She wears a coat of mottled colors, more like patches of orange, grey and white blended into each other. Her Amazonian ways may find her zigzagging up the cat steps to race across the bookcase top through the wall tunnel onto the cat tree then armchair back and a flying leap to the couch, before racing back to the cat steps for a second go-around. When she’s in this Wonder Woman fur flying claws extended mode, we all know it’s best to have vacated the room ten seconds ago.
Her place in the social hierarchy of the four cats of our home appears to be at the top, although it is all somewhat complex and not always crystal clear. The Persian was never in the calico’s good graces until time left just the two of them, and they became best buddies almost overnight; but then the addition of the two grays four months later dissolved that relationship almost overnight as well.
This complicated little calico bullies one of the grays so repeatedly, that the gray’s territory is now the room called my studio. A three foot gate of bars expands across the entrance, and although the gray could easily jump out or the calico jump in with no problem, they never do. It’s an acceptance of territory they seem to understand. I’m resigned, after multiple solutions tried and failed, to accept this arrangement as how it will always be while the two are under the same roof.
So…as I quietly sit listening to her low soothing purr, she turns her gaze once again in my direction followed by a hoarse little murmur of a meow. I’m wondering where I’m regarded in all of this feline melodramatic interaction? I vision myself at the top of the pecking order. I don’t think my calico cares what I envision. She already knows how it really is.
My life will always be content with a cat on my lap, and she will always be content to be that cat on my lap whenever she chooses. She asks so little of me, so I can ask no more of her. This spirited little calico, with all of her quirks, charms, and difficulty; will always be a favorite of mine.