Reflections
on the Twelfth Week of Summer – Kittens and Company
 |
| Ande on the Table with the Warty Squash |
Last
Sunday, Kay, our friend from Portland, gave
me a warty squash, stepped
inside the log house, and swiveled her head from side to side. “I
want to see those kittens.”
Paws
pattering
against
floor boards,
Ande scampered down the hall and
stopped by
Kay’s
feet.
Her
husband Eric, Spence’s friend since grade school, chuckled. He
dwarfed Spence as they carried
luggage to the bedrooms.
Kay
bent to pet the kitten.
“Ooh.
Which
one is this, and how do I tell them apart?”
“That’s
Ande, the
ambassador. He’s mostly white.”
I set
the squash
on
the kitchen table and
scanned the great room. A
kitten slunk
along the sliding
glass door
across the room. I
pointed.
“That’s
Rills,
the
explorer. He’s
skinny with a dark head and white fur
that looks like a collar.”
While
Kay stood
and
practiced, “Ande . . . Rills,” I stooped to peek
under the sofa for the third kitten.
Wary
yellow eyes stared
back.
“Gilbert,
the
philosopher,
is hiding.
His head’s white with a dark butterfly shape covering his
ears.”
Kay
glanced under the sofa and sighed. “Even
though I’m allergic to cats, I love kittens.”
Our
kittens
have
two modes―rest
and reckless rioting. Would she, a
dog owner,
still love kittens
after a two night stay? Perhaps
itchy eyes, a stuffy nose, and fatigue from kitten shenanigans would
change her mind.
Monday,
Kay and
I searched
websites
for Regency
fabric
and dress
patterns
in
preparation
of
my
attending
the
2020
Jane Austen General Meeting.
Kay
squinted at her phone. “This
website gives
the McCall
pattern
five stars for ease of sewing but says it
doesn’t
satisfy
some
historians.”
Ambassador
Ande made
a
diplomatic
move. He
put his paws on Kay’s
thigh.
She
petted him and took a sip of coffee.
Ande
rubbed his whiskers
against her knee then reached his paws higher up her thigh.
Kay
set
her
phone on
the table and petted
Ande’s
head.
“What do you want?”
I
grabbed his middle and lifted him off the floor. “He’s asking to
sit in your lap.”
Kay
reached for
Ande. “You’re a
friendly
kitty.”
She set him on her lap and touched
her screen to
review a
Butterick
pattern.
Later,
Ande moseyed
to
Eric lounging
in
a
log chair. Ande stretched his front legs and pawed Eric’s cargo
pants.
Eric
chuckled. “You want something, kitty?”
“He
wants to sit in your lap,” I
answered for Ande while I studied a
photo of
blue flowers on off-white Regency fabric.
Eric
chuckled again. “Okay.” He leaned down, lifted Ande to his lap,
and patted Ande’s
head.
Compared
to Ambassador
Ande’s
formal
welcome,
Philosopher
Gilbert used
a
deliberative
approach. He studied
the
guests before interacting.
Crouched
behind the toy basket, he watched Kay and me on the sofa. Stretching
my hands, I held a skein of soft gray and tan yarn while
Kay rolled it
into a ball. She
tucked the
ball
inside her pink knitting bag.
From
the same vantage point, Gilbert observed Kay sit
in a log chair and
flick the ends of
a
circular knitting
needle―click,
click, click―to
make
a shawl.
The yarn twirled around Kay’s
index finger, dangled,
and
disappeared
into
the pink bag at
her
feet.
Paw
by paw, Gilbert crept
toward the
bag.
“Our
Westie chases
cars . . .” Kay
tugged
yarn off
the ball in the bag.
“From inside the house.”
I
giggled, and Gilbert
thrust
his nose into the pink
bag.
Kay
leaned forward
and nudged the
kitten
away. “You’re
clever to
find the yarn ball.”
She lifted the bag to the coffee table and looped
more
yarn around the needle. “Duffy
runs
to the window and barks at every car, bicyclist, or
pedestrian until
they’re out of sight.”
Gilbert
backed
out
of sight―behind
his toy basket.
 |
| Gilbert on Pillow Mountain |
And
Explorer
Rills provided drama.
When
septuagenarians get
together, I admit, there’s little physical
drama.
We’d lingered
over
lunch and indulged
in a
laid-back chat
about
Eric and Kay’s travels
in France―the
woman with a
big yellow hat that
blocked
the view of the Mona Lisa in
the Louvre, sipping champagne
on
top of the Eiffel Tower, and protecting granddaughter Cedar from the
detachable banister on
the third floor of
a
Paris
Airbnb.
Circling
the
kitchen table, Rills raised
his nose and
sniffed―perhaps
catching the
lingering aroma of olives and prosciutto.
He
chose
Eric’s side for the
leap. Rills
missed the table top by
centimeters.
He flexed his claws and dug into Eric’s place mat.
Only
an
empty sandwich plate weighed
the mat down.
Swish,
thump, crash.
The
mat, Rills, and the plate hit the floor.
“Oh.
It was my fault.” Eric stared at the broken plate.
“I should have caught it.”
Spence
picked up the two
pieces.
“That was Janet’s wedding china.”
Kay’s
forehead wrinkled. “Could
you
glue it together?”
I
took
the pieces from Spence and stuffed them
into a bag. “It was Rills’ fault, and it’s just a plate.” I
dropped
the bag into the garbage. “I’m just glad I don’t have to clean
up any shards.”
I
was also
glad
the
kitten
hadn’t
scratched
the
guests in
a
desperate
grab or
pulled
one of
their cell
phones to
a smashing
encounter with the hardwood floor.
Rills
slunk
to the bathroom where
Ande and Gilbert stalked
each
other from opposite sides of
the shower curtain. Poke,
swat, pounce. Their
version of
kitten
whack-a-mole.
With
kitten-company
daytime
relations
off to a smashing start, I
needed
to protect the guests from the feline
trio
at night.
“Close
your bedroom doors.” I yawned as Kay
headed for my room and Eric turned into the guest room. “And
don’t let the kittens
in
if you get up for bathroom trips during the night.”
Eric
chuckled.
Kay
waved.
While
Spence read
news on
the sofa, I
climbed the spiral
stairs
to the loft
bed.
Behind
me metal
steps
clanged under
racing
kitten paws.
Rills
and Ande skidded
to a stop by the bed.
They
glared.
Stifling
a laugh at their stressed-kitten expressions, I opened Richard
Powers’s The
Overstory
and patted the mattress. “I’m allowed to sleep here. You can
too.” Being
a practical person, I
rolled
onto my side and
resisted
the urge to add
if you’re quiet.
Gilbert,
the kitten that won't
climb the scary stairs, let out a mournful mew from the first floor.
“It’s
okay, Gilly,” Spence’s voice assured. “I’ll stay with you―not
like those kitty
traitors.”
Ande
and Rills
kneaded the blanket and curled into kitten balls. Perhaps
their welcoming-drama day
tired them, and
we could
rest.
Forcing
my eyes to stay open, I
reread
the same paragraph
four
times before giving up, setting
the book on the bedside table, and
turning
off the light.
A
kitten
pounced on my back.
I
pulled the covers over my head in time to
cushion paws hammering my ear.
After
a five minute race, which
gave
me a thorough massage,
the kittens
changed
the speedway
bed into
a circus
tent. They whirled chasing their tails. Finally, having worn
themselves out, Ande settled
beside
my stomach, and Rills pressed against
my back. The clock chimed eleven, two hours past my bedtime. We slept
until my bladder announced, Morning!
Hurry downstairs or
else
.
. .
Attempting
to prevent that or
else,
I didn’t roll to the edge of the bed and execute a
gentle yoga rise. Instead,
scattering
the kittens, I threw off the covers and jumped out of bed.
Oops.
The
rash rising, together
with not
enough sleep, sent a swirl of effervescent bubbles through my head.
Vertigo.
Clutching
the railing and the center post, I
staggered down the stairs and into the bathroom. Sheesh.
Tuesday
afternoon, Kay gathered
her gear and took
a deep breath. “The kittens didn’t trigger my allergies.” She
paused for
a
last look at the
brothers
in rest mode on the sofa. “They’re
delightful, rambunctious cats.”
Delightful
and rambunctious are two words I don’t
usually
pair.
I’m
glad the ambassador, explorer, and philosopher hadn’t
changed Kay’s love
for kittens
or triggered her allergies. However,
the
kittens’
company manners
did change a
Wells Wood custom.
We
store
the
place
mats in a kitchen cupboard leaving the
warty
squash in
sole possession of the table.
 |
| Rills in the Laundry Basket |
