Thursday, now with cats

Poppy being a cat. . .

There is a cat asleep on my car–Poppy. Buttercup is giving herself a bath up there too. The hood is warm from my drive home. I had planned a lovely meal for dinner–but am too tired to cook it. I want a nap too. Buttercup is now fastidiously licking the back of her paw, then rubbing her face with it. Cats amaze me.

It will sound odd, but I like the way our cats smell. Due to my allergies, I don’t often bury my face in their fur, but when I do, I like it. Because they are outside cats, they don’t smell like regular cats that are in a house all day–it’s more of a woodsmoke, leaves, fresh air smell. I was explaining this to Tony one day, when I figured out what it reminded me of. They smell like my Daddy–woodsmoke, leaves, fresh air–outdoors.

I didn’t grow up with cats–we had dogs–all outdoors. I never knew the joy of watching kittens play. I did get to watch puppies run and tumble over each other–and climb into the middle of the pan of moistened dog food with their little feet squishing into it. And their ears dragging through it. Then collapsing into a stupor with tummies full to bursting.

Kittens, however, are a different ball game. They pounce and roll and tumble and groom each other. And cats don’t jump on you and lick you in the face. (No offense to you dog lovers who enjoy a smooch from your pooch–I’m just not one who cares for licky dogs.)

Kitties on the car. . .it’s been a rainy day. It’s now nearly 6:00 p.m. and still light out. Spring is creeping in on little, cat feet. My apologies to Carl Sandburg. I know that fog creeps in then dissipates and blows away, while spring creeps in then explodes in an abundance of activity. Cats do that too sometimes. . .the exploding–not the dissipating.

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