I understand that there was an election last night. I haven’t paid a lot of attention to the issues since all feline-related questions were overlooked in the campaign. So, the candidates can talk to the paw as far as I’m concerned.
I confess to you today that I prefer to stay in the closet, I do realize the modern-day implications of my statement. However, I assure you, dear reader, that not only do I not care a whit about anyone’s sexual orientation, the closet in question here also is not metaphorical. It’s literal. And it’s my favourite place to be.
You see, Mother and Father have an ongoing, good-natured tug-of-war about stuff. Father accuses Mother of wanting to give all of their things away. Mother does take a lot of items to Goodwill. Three carloads since we moved in on October first. And Father is the admitted hoarder of this family. From the storage container, they unearthed three large boxes full of his jackets. Just jackets. Not jackets and boots or jackets and crackers. Jackets! But he is loath to part with any of them.
I tell you this as a preamble to why he hangs onto one of his fave, and Mother’s least fave things. It’s an old duffel bag that’s seen better days.
And, might I add, that it’s one of two old duffel bags he clings to like Rose hung onto the door after the Titanic went down. But I have created a way for him to hang onto this ratty gem. It smells of him. His cologne, his deodorant, and even his sweaty gym socks are all embedded in this relic. And that, my friends, makes it one of my favourite things. And therefore, it shall not go the way of the ceramic bust of Caesar or the white plant stand!
When this bag was tucked away from Mother’s donating ways, at the bottom of Father’s London clothes closet, I’d find some quiet time to climb aboard for a long nap. Same in Wallaceburg. And I’ve found it again, in a deep storage room here on the farm. Snuggling on it is like a warm hug on a chilly day.
What’s confusing my people is how I enter this closet, since its door naturally closes upon exit. I’m not the door-opening type, as you might have guessed. It’s simply too much effort. But I’ll never give away all of my secrets. A woman needs to have a bit of mystery about her, even if that woman is a cat. It’s all part of my charm, so I’m told.
I’m finding that, so far, country life suits me just fine. I bound up the stairs as quick as a bunny. But I would like to meet this city mouse that’s become a country mouse I’ve heard so much about. Mother does not share this wish. Mice outside, people inside, she says, conveniently omitting me, but I am quite certain that I’m included in the category “people”. Enjoy your week my pretties! I’ll be in the closet, catching up on some much-needed rest
Your friend in fur,