Our cat, Dickens, isn’t a lush. He doesn’t go weaving and tottering instead of stalking. But he does have a drinking problem. For a long time I’ve wondered why his place-setting got so sticky, icky, and grungy. I bought a plastic place mat to put under his dishes, but I had to clean the mat so often it was twice the work — now I had to clean the floor AND the mat. An old towel didn’t work, either.
No. Dickens LOVES milk. He’s a milkaholic. But he doesn’t know how to lap properly. That little cat tongue, instead of lapping delicately downward, acts like a shovel and scoops it upward — up, up, and away — and all over everything. We finally had to put his dish down in a sink so we could just rinse the splatter off. Maybe we ought to get him a splatter guard, like behind a stove. Nah. He gets it on the floor, too. You would not believe how sticky dried milk can be. It’s a problem. We’re thinking of sending him to MAA, Milkaholics Anonymous. But if I even mention it around Dickens he goes CATatonic.
Because of his drinking problem, Dickens had his license taken away. Now he has to have a designated driver. And he doesn’t like waiting.
But Dickens has never been normal, even for a cat. I don’t think we’ve ever had a normal cat. Maybe the position of the words normal and cat is an oxymoron. But there have to be some calm cats not from the Twilight Zone. I have cat calendars and read cat blogs and You Tube that show nice Currier and Ives type scenes with calm cats coiled quietly in the corner while white white fluffy snow falls softly outside. Sigh.
Dickens sleeps mostly in our laps and holds us hostage. “Don’t move,” he says with that look a cat can give. “I have daggers and I’m not afraid to use them. Sit quietly and in full lap mode and you won’t get hurt.”
Dickens — lying across Mike’s arm. He’s actually not just sleeping. He’s hybernating — like a BEAR.
If he’s sitting in Mike’s lap, I have to wait on Mike if Mike gets thirsty, or needs food before he perishes. If Dickens is sitting in my lap, Mike does the same for me. Like I said. We’ve never had a normal cat. Okay. We’ve never had normal kids, either, so why not cats.
Dickens got his name because, as a youngster, he loved putting his paw on my book while I read, or would look at the words over my shoulder, or just flat out lie down on the page. Reading by osmosis I suppose. Unfortunately, I’m not geared to do that. He would also try to wrap his paw around my pencil while I worked crossword puzzles or cryptograms.
Dickens and his power point presentation.
He’s also a midnight prowler. Problem is, his territory is on our sleeping stomachs. Especially Mike’s. Fortunately Mike’s stomach is still bigger than mine. Dickens hops up on the bed, does a turnabout on the stomach and chest, then settles in to nibble on a nose or an ear or a chin. Just showing us how much he loves us. Purring a lovely tune the whole time. Weird, right? Not to mention interrupting sleep at the deepest hour. It’s not always midnight. It can be two or three in the morning. He never learns. He gets chucked out the door shortly afterward.
Just because he’s wearing a green collar he thinks he blends.
But don’t think that just because he’s not normal like Garfield’s Nermal that Dickens is not loved. We love that puddy tat to pieces. Spoil him, too. Just like all you other cat people out there. I check out You Tube.