The Cat Goes Woof, Woof!

Lord, the onset of another Fall is upon us. By "us", I mean me and the beloved Oscar, the black Siamese cross that has been my companion (some say my familiar) the last 15 years. He and I are sitting in front of the woodstove, being remarkably inert and content. His booming purr and the sound of the automatic blower attached to the stove are the bass lines to the tappa-tappa of my keyboard this dank evening. Oh so cozy to be inside and warm and dry, indeed.

My partner and I have two cats and four dogs between us, plus Alberto the fighting fish. He remarks that if we are ever to move into together to take our adventure to the Next Level, we will have to undertake a mass cull of all household pets. "Kill 'em all, start fresh," he says, deadpan.

I comfort him by pointing out his ancient Wookie Chow is increasingly arthritic and demented, and that my Oscar has outlived expectations by at least ten years. But then the Wookie goes on jaunty evening walkabouts and continues to gain weight, and Oscar continues to thrive in his best "Fuck you, stats!" geriatric rock-star kind of way, and I secretly doubt whether we will be a one-cat, three-dog household when cohabitation happens (we agree at some point in the next year is likely).

It is implausible, as many small realities, that I should be here as we near the end of 2011. Dear Reader, it was almost a year ago that I started the fuckbuddery with the best and horniest of light intentions. I am somewhat bemused--but very, very pleased--that events have transpired as they have the last eleven months.

It seems ludicrous to me, but pleasant, that I have become so cheesily enamoured that I tuck cards-for-no-reason under his pillow, and blurt things like "You know, it is so nice to wake up every morning, think of you and be thankful" and "You make me a better person" and other assorted zingers that have him look at me smiling, both eyebrows raised, waiting for the punchline. Nope, he's released my inner earnest romantic (what I believe used to be called a "gaylord" in days of yore).

I realise sharing this may put you in danger of puking up the tiniest bit in your own mouth, or at least leave you feeling mildly nauseous. I've been there. I don't know what happened to my most excellent jaded self. All I can say in my own defense is that I remain cynical in most other facets of life. I do concede both he and his adorable spawn have captured my heart, though, and introduced me new levels of both joy and hilarity.

For example, the Child has taken a shine to the Muppets. I rented a dvd of original episodes and we've all heartily enjoyed them, except I don't wake up at 3am shouting "MUH-pets! MUH-pets!" over and over and over again. This is funny to me, as I have in my possession some exceptional noise-blocking earmuffs that I keep on the headboard on my side of the bed when I stay over. Apparently the ex--an organic home-canner/itchy ethnic sweater wearer/has studied to be a doola but lost interest kind of gal--finds it less than amusing to be woken pre-dawn to the clarion call for muppets. The two-year old yelling and the rage fits seem quite natural to me. Animal was always my favourite character.

In other news, a couple I know are in the midst of breaking up. Apparently I am helpful in providing advice on How to Get Through a Gutwrenching Dissolution. This strikes me as funny, as a) my ex and I had about as amiable a break-up as can be and b) I've always been grossed out by people eager to share the deep-yet-pithy thoughts they've gleaned from their incredible journey. I consider my own life of relative highs and lows to be remarkably banal, and I'm grateful for it. We all go through shit, and I think I'm becoming more empathetic as I age like a fine, stinky cheese. That's about all the deep thinking I've managed so far.

Otherwise, there continues to be aggravations, stresses, triumphs and grateful epiphanies of the mundane variety. My house has yet to receive an offer from any suitor, though I have found a suitable replacement for her and wonder what I should do about it.

Work continues to be lucrative and pleasant and consuming.

My health is piss-poor, as I savour Cold/Ailment #16 (or so) while gulping iron supplements. The past two days my ears have taken to popping painfully; today I blew my nose for the umpteenth time and could suddenly hear clearly out my left ear.

The Man is wonderful, the Child delightful and demanding, the Ex-Wife problematic. My own Ex is funny and recounts strange episodes from his frequent work-trips to L.A., though he has yet to appear (now Month 28 post-breakup) to collect his possessions.

Guyfriend is visiting in the next week or so with his European girlfriend/Lindyhopper extraordinaire. Thanksgiving is almost upon us. I brined a whole chicken the other day and made a superlative roast, and am now making stock.

In truth, Reader, it is a dull and blessed life I'm leading. I'm grateful to not be lying in a ditch suffering from a bayonet wound and surviving on grubs. I wish I weren't sick so much. And so it goes: in balance, a good life.

G'nite!