Rest in Peace, Phoebe

We adopted Phoebe only because I was in grad school while working full-time and so it felt like I was never home. Pat had always wanted us to have a cat, but I had not grown up with pets other than turtles and fish and refused, saying, "If we get a cat, you'll never touch me again. [You'll give all your affection to the cat.]" I relented because Pat deserved company in my absence.

Pat & I drove to what was then the P.A.W.S. animal shelter in Montclair, New Jersey, where we lived then, in the spring of 2008 and looked at a vast range of caged and free-roaming cats. "They're sisters. Would you like two?" said the cat minder when she saw us looking at a cage with two short-hair American tabbies. I am a sister and couldn't separate sisters. They were five years old, and we intended to go home with cats, who were not kittens since Pat explained to me that fewer people chose full-grown cats.

The smaller one with gray and black stripes chose Pat right away. Pat & I agreed that we each got to name one of the cats and I selected the name "Phoebe" because I liked the sound of it. Phoebe was the one with brown and black stripes. Pat named Phoebe's sister "Muffin" until by the end of the first evening, she declared, "You're no Muffin. You're a Toonces!" because she was naughty non-stop.

I knew nothing about cat-parenting and told my colleague Michele Morningstar, "I wish I could pick up Phoebe and put her in my lap."

"Then pick her up!" Michele encouraged.

I did and learned about kneading. Ouch. Phoebe had a good, healthy purr, which distracted me from the needle-pricks of her claws in my thighs. I learned to give her what she needed and wore thicker pants.

What Phoebe Gave Me

Becalmed me. Petting Phoebe's silky fur and smelling it along her spine practically erased my anxiety. She smelled like a Napoleon pastry to me.

Enhanced my self-regard. I walked around the house, saying to Phoebe, "You're so special, so special," and some of that affirmation rubbed off on me.

Increased my delight. She had a repertoire that charmed me and never got old. Lying on her back while checking to see if I was paying attention, for example, thrilled me. Every time. Phoebe, also, was such a generous purrer.

Decreased my self-absorption. Someone else absolutely depended on me to feed her and monitor her health, and to engage vets when her needs were a mystery.

Enlarged my family. Pat & I were a couple until we got cats, including Phoebe. And then we were and are a family.

Ultimately, you were the "perfect angel" that Dr. Antey called you as she injected you with the euthanasia dose. I love thinking about you in healthier times and only wish you were still here corporeally. 

Just before we let you go, a day or so before, I cried, listening to "Memory" from cats because you, too, were a glamorous -- albeit indoor-only-by-our-design -- cat, who still merited appreciation in the twilight of your life. And you received it!

Rest in Peace, Toonces, the One and Only

The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.

How I Came to Get What's Special About Cats

Toonces, photo-bombing a picture of Phoebe

Growing up, there was Fluffy and Chummer and Jody and Tigger, but they were my friends’ dogs. Amy had a big, long-haired cat, but she didn’t hang out with us like the dog did and had an air of mystery accordingly. At home, we were allowed only turtles, so I didn’t really get what it meant to have a pet.

A relatively short time after Pat and I got together, in the early ‘90s, her sweet bull terrier Meghan Jonquil died of an aneurysm. I’ll never forget how, inadvertently, I offended one of our fellow Or Chadash congregants by announcing both the death of his grandfather (z”l) and Pat’s dog from the bimah (pulpit) that Shabbat.

Suddenly, I’m reckoning with the death of a being who represents the closest I’ll come to directly parenting anyone. At a moment like this, I wish I’d left it at turtles – with them, I was more so their siblings, since my older sisters mothered them.

Toonces’ sister Phoebe is lying on the table next to me as I write this and I’m trying not to feel survivor’s guilt in her behalf. Why did Toonces get cancer, but not Phoebe? Why did Toonces get cancer at all? Why did my father (z”l)? Both of their lives were cut short – his at 56 and hers at nearly 13.

Toonces and Phoebe almost weren’t Toonces and Phoebe. For the first 16 years of our nearly 24-year relationship so far, I denied Pat a pet. I didn’t grow up with a cat or dog at home and so I didn’t get it. No, I said, they’ll just smell up the house and you won’t pay attention to me once we have a pet.

Finally, I relented because I felt guilty. I was working full-time and earning a Master’s part-time and felt bad at leaving Pat alone so often. OK, we can get a cat from P.A.W.S. (the local shelter at the time), I said dolefully. We went down there and agreed on adopting an older cat, since they’re usually less popular and because Pat said that in their wildness, a kitten would drive me crazy.

We looked at cage after cage and I felt terrible at having to choose a cat and then leave the rest behind. We returned a couple of times to a cage with two gray-brown, striped American tabbies. The P.A.W.S. rep came over and said cheerfully, “Would you like two? They’re sisters.”

Oh, God, I’m a sister myself. We can’t separate sisters. The P.A.W.S. person told us that they had turned five in May. Pat & I agreed that each of us got to name one of them. I called one of them Phoebe and Pat called the other Muffin … but not for long.

Our first evening with them, Pat looked at the littler one and said, “You’re no Muffin. You’re a Toonces!” It might have been as Toonces was staring down at her from the ceiling beams of the laundry room. It turns out that Toonces was so scared of her new environment she remained on the ceiling for a week, except to use the litter box.

From then on, she maintained her Toonces-like reputation, routinely springing from a loose tile in our basement’s raised ceiling onto the back of Pat’s  La-Z-Boy rocker, surprising Pat every time. A woman once said to me, “I prefer dogs. Cats won’t obey.” It was then and even prior that I realized I adored cats for the same reason; intermittent reinforcement is the most powerful sort.

Phoebe and Toonces – well, really, just Phoebe, as Toonces never really cottoned to me (nor Phoebe to Pat, interestingly) – have claimed affection from us utterly based on their whims. I have loved the serendipity of it all. For instance, Toonces would join Pat unpredictably while Pat was eating breakfast and would walk into Pat’s newspaper-reading arms, and lean into her chest. She’d come to rest, hanging her front paws over one of Pat’s bent elbows. Pat called it, “Table.” Toonces would jump up on the table and slink toward Pat, and Pat would look at her and ask rhetorically, “Table for Toonces?”

Toonces really didn’t care much for my touch, but her little face was so cute and her mischief mostly funny, and she charmed me. I did not do the same for Toonces apparently; yesterday morning, amidst her lethargy in her illness, I gave Toonces a series of pets and she did as she did so often when I petted her: Immediately following, she bathed the very patches I had touched – the cat equivalent of wiping one’s hands on one’s pants post-handshake, in front of the person whose hand you just shook. Even so, I was amused. “Pat, look at that. She’s ill, but she’s still got enough strength to wash me off of her fur.” Kindly enough, when we petted her for the last time this afternoon, she let me, period.

Earlier today, Pat & I recalled that prior to Toonces’ meal time, she would sit up against a wall with her arms across her belly and would look remarkably like a person as she waited for me to feed her sister and her. And in the mornings, if I didn’t wake up when she was hungry, she’d walk over to my night table and start tossing books off of it. And at dinner time, when Pat called, “Kitties!” Toonces would run three adorable circuits around Pat’s La-Z-Boy before entering the laundry room, where she was fed, nightly.

For cats, I’ve learned, everything they do is socially acceptable as far as they’re concerned, except they’re not – not concerned … except with each other: Little Toonces was an especially good sister. Any time she heard Phoebe cry out, she was by her side nearly instantly, even though typically, her loyalty-reward from Phoebe was being batted on her little head. Oy, Phoebe, who’re you going to bat around now, just Pat & me? We’ll take it.

Sixteen Days Later

The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions.

Poor Me

Pat & I were going to go to shul, so I could say The Mourner's Kaddish publicly, but the service tonight honors LGBT Pride, so as I posted in a Facebook status update earlier, I opted out, thinking it would feel more festive than I felt. Instead, we finished binge-watching Derek, a superbly poignant series about an autistic man who works in a home for the aged.

Here are the last books my mom ever read or considered reading with her book group:

• The Fallen Angel
• A Lucky Child
• A Walker in the City
• The Canterbury Tales
• Jews Without Money
• I Married a Communist

Here are the books I've taken out of the library since her death:

• The Orphaned Adult
• Matters of Honor
• Rose of No Man's Land
• How Animals Grieve
• The Other Side of Sadness
• Healing Your Grieving Heart for Teens: 100 Practical Ideas - Simple tips for understanding and expressing your grief
• Death's Door: Modern Dying and the Ways We Grieve

The two best book recommendations my mom ever made to me were The Crock of Gold and Cutting for Stone. The first novel was about magic and love and the second, about yearning and grief, and living through both.

That's where I am now -- grateful for the magical parts of my life and for all of the love I experience and express, but living through yearning for, and grief around, my mother (z"l).

I wish I could check out of real-life till I finish reading all seven of the books I listed above, if not also the ones from my mother's book group list (though I don't want to re-read *The Canterbury Tales*).

Suddenly, I was jealous of my age when my dad died -- 17 -- as I thought about how many fewer responsibilities I had then, but that's not really true. I had to continue showing up to high school and had to do well enough to get to go to college. I also forgot to consider how love-lorn I was as well; I had a secret girlfriend then, who was already a freshman at a too-far-away college, and I knew my attachment wasn't requited, not really.

So compared to when my dad died in November of '82, I didn't have love or meaningful work then, but I also didn't have to settle my parent's estate, like my sisters and I do now, now that we're the only adults left in the upper-part of the chain. My other responsibilities, to Pat and our kitties Phoebe and Toonces, and to my management and the team I manage at work, and are more welcome than not at this time. I can always renew the library books....

Torrent of Consciousness

The postings on this site are my own and don’t necessarily represent IBM’s positions, strategies or opinions. 


Observations During Rabbi Kleinbaum's 20th Anniversary Shabbat Service



Erika, the wife of my college classmate Sari, and her pre-teen daughter Ruby walk toward us as we're all heading to the entrance. And instead of being with Pat, I'm accompanied by a friend Davina -- a heterosexual ally I met through our diversity and inclusion work -- but Erika doesn't know that and wonders where Pat is. I explain.


I can see that Erika's relieved and we go in...but not before passing through the gauntlet of Rick as he hands us each a siddur, "I'm watching you!" after I introduce Davina. "Rick, Davina is a great *ally* of our community." And she's also a good sport. A very attractive good sport, who more congregants are going to notice, I'm certain, especially the female ones. He's semi-satisfied with my explanation that Pat's in Green Bay with her brother, helping their mother move.


And I do feel guilty as we enter the sanctuary. Pat should be by my side. Which is worse? Not coming with Pat for this historic occasion in the life of our congregation, or not coming at all?



Pat's and my usual seats in the center, second row are taken, which seems right -- at least, another woman shouldn't sit in Pat's seat next to me. Our view is obstructed by a pillar. Pat might have left, rather than have such a crummy view. I'm Ok with our seats and again, Davina's a sport. And she has been to CBST a couple of times before -- once with Pat and me and one time on Purim with other friends.


A pretty, single (I think) congregant comes over and I feel bad that Davina is not eligible, but also further guilty somehow, like the woman is sort of winking at me without winking, at my sheer good fortune to have such an attractive friend, but is also perhaps a bit disoriented, since Pat and I ourselves are such an established pillar of our congregation, and who is this woman anyway...? Or it could all be major projection on my part. And then I explain Davina's ally status, and then the congregant might be personally disappointed as she moves on to her seat.



I'm missing Pat, especially at the start of the service, as we're singing "Shalom Aleichem" and swaying with interlocked arms, as is the congregation's custom. Why do the women on either side of me have to be so little? I can feel the imprint of my friend's tiny hand on my back and miss the solidity of standing with Pat, who is essentially my height, and miss that I have no one to kiss on the mouth when the tune ends and we pause to wish "Shabbat shalom" to those around us. I'm *so* spoiled. Later, before delivering her drash, the rabbi will allude to having been through a hard breakup with her "ex-partner" of many, many years, and will announce that she has a new partner. And during the kiddush, another friend will tell me that her partner broke up with her recently, and they were together for at least the 16 years we've been congregants. How were either of these breakups possible?



I can't imagine losing Pat, except to death, which I imagine morbidly all too frequently, since she's 15 years older than I. My dad was a year younger than my mom and he died at 56, so the younger ones can go first, of course, but -- and my mom never re-married. When Pat turned 56, she had a colon cancer scare and had a piece of her colon removed. We got off scot-free, so I relaxed...and then I remembered that I needed to get past 56, too, without Pat dying, since 56 was the terrible age that broke apart my parents. Nine more years of pins and needles and then I can relax, until I figure out another reason to worry, assuming I'm still healthy myself then!



The place is packed. I'm smiling at people I've known since we joined upon our move to metro-New York 16 years ago: Sari, Judy, Saul, Saul, Ruth, Jack, Marni, Ilene, Abbe, Diane, Joyce, Karen...how is it that 16 years later, I'm edging toward becoming among the elder congregants? Not quite yet, I guess, but when I look around me at the younger faces -- and bodies -- I feel wistful.



What a lovely trio of Orthodox women two rows ahead of us! They look like the just barely grown-up version of the prettiest girls in the Modern Orthodox Jewish day school I attended from Grades 1-8. They can't be older than their late-20s. Chestnut hair streams down one's back, another's fine, blondish-brown hair is swept up in a pony-tail that ends with a couple of sweet curls and the length of the third, dark-brunette one matches the chestnut hair's length almost exactly. Such simcha-inspiring symmetry!




When they stand for the Amidah, they supplicate themselves in all the right places. During the rabbi's drash, two of them emerge as a couple, leaning into each other's shoulders with one, tugging on the other's pony-tail at one point, twirling the curls -- ultimately, I recognize one as a far-flung Facebook friend who I'm seeing in 3D for the first time. What a chasm they've crossed to be here, as a couple, touching each other, even just a little, in *public*. How at home they must feel, to be able to do so. Again, perhaps another giant projection on my part...if only Pat were with me, so I could have my left arm around her as usual, draping my hand now visibly on her shoulder/back/neck, so that my wedding ring would flash in the sanctuary light as a literal symbol of our rock-solidness (k'ayn eyeen harah).



God, why can't Pat be here with Davina and me? It makes me so lonely to be without Pat, and it sets my imagination to catastrophizing. How sweet can this service be if we're not together to share it? How easily my mind moves like a magnet to noticing the especially lovely women in the crowd. If I do lose Pat in the future, will this one I see a few rows back from me still be single? Probably not. Nor that one. And she won't be Pat in any case. What if I'm alone by 56 and by then, no longer look at all attractive and can't find anyone to approximate Pat? Why *didn't* we adopt when it turned out that I couldn't bear a child organically? Who will pay attention to me when I'm old?



As I look over then at a baby who's cooing in her mother's lap, I see Judy, one of the long-time congregants, in the row behind them and recall my sobbing silently nearly a decade ago as Sari and Erika went to the bimah for their second daughter's baby-naming. Judy, herself a mother of grown kids at the time, knew enough to recognize why I was crying and simply paused to rub/pat my back gently as she walked by. It was the simplest kindness, and it convinced me that I was a bonafide member of this congregational community. We never spoke about it and I hadn't thought about her kindness in years, till I saw Erika, Sari, their three daughters, and Judy at the service.



It's our fate, instead, to have feline daughters, I guess, and suddenly, I want to be playing with them back at home, in our nice, suburban, split-level house, petting them and hearing them purr. Toonces, especially, has been missing her other mommy all week. If only I could train them to bentch licht....



I'm distracted from my day-dreaming by Rabbi Weiss, who is ready to recite two blessings for two families now up at the bimah -- one for the two women who just had twin boys and another for two men who've been together for 40 years and who are marrying on Sunday. Later, during remarks in honor of Rabbi Kleinbaum's tenure, Rabbi Weiss mentions that during Rabbi Kleinbaum's first month, she officiated at five AIDS-related funerals and this month, there have been five babies born to congregants.



During the kiddush, Davina says, "Every time I come here memorable things happen." And a bit later: "These things should be happening, of course, but they're in the realm of, 'Who ever thought we'd see -- What moved you about the service?'"




"Well, I'm kvelling a bit because we've come so far -- as a congregation and community, and personally. As a congregation, we now have our own building and our own prayerbook and personally, Rabbi Weiss married Pat and me two Julys ago [after 19 years together]."



As I said to Rabbi Kleinbaum after the service, "[Baruch atah adonai eloheinu melech ha'olam]... shecheyanu v'kiy'manu v'higyanu lazman hazeh!"/"[Blessed are you our God, creator of the universe] ...who has supported us, protected us and brought us to this moment."

 

Oy!

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

My Mother Had a Car Accident

Thank God, again, no other cars or people were involved.

[Strange man's voice answers my mother's cell-phone.] "Hello? Yes, well, I'm the paramedic, who brought your mother in [to the Emergency Room]."

"Thank you. Is she able to speak?"

"Yes, she's upset, but here she is:"

"My hand's deformed."

"What do you mean by deformed, Mom?"

"My hand's deformed."

"Twisted, like you broke it?"

"Yes."

"What else hurts?"

"My stomach. It must have been from the air-bag. I hit a brick wall."

"They said it was a stone-wall, Mom."

"Right, a stone-wall. I was turning out of Don's driveway and was on my way to Carolyn's for dinner."

"How fast were you going?"

"Must not have been that fast or I'd be dead."

"Well, luckily, a stonewall gives. A brick wall, less so. I'm glad you're able to talk."

"Yeah, well, my brain is fine, I think. They're going to do a blood test and CAT Scans and they're not sure they'll keep me overnight, but it's already so late and the tests will take hours."

"Well, Deb's [my oldest sister] almost there, so don't worry. She'll take you home if need be and stay with you."

I told Pat that when I told my mom Pat's theory, about her stomach hurting from the seat-belt and air-bag, my mother said, "I'm glad Pat has a theory, but she's not a doctor."

"Actually," Pat said, smiling in response, "I am," ["...just not a medical one."]

How comforting to have a cat to swaddle. She's lying on one of my sweaters and I just tucked one of my sweatshirts around her, which she seems to be relishing (a cat's version of relishing is that she doesn't bolt away from me and the covers).

God willing, my mom will be 84 on the 20th. All of us are feeling guilty. My mother had invited my sister Kayla and her husband to the concert after which the accident happened, but my sister had declined, saying she was too tired.

"Oh, Kayla, don't be silly," I said and then related how I had thought nothing of asking my mom to drive to Greenwich and home by herself in the dark the other night, to meet me for dinner prior to my therapy session.

The Serendipity of Phoebe

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

My Luck and a Cat

It seems like days since Phoebe wanted this much affection. Of course, she waited till I was wearing brown corduroys to perch on my lap. I *was* going to blog about being able to catch up on the rhythm/patterns/interests of an ex-girlfriend's life through Twitter, but this cat-affection is moving me more right now.

(The Twitter thing, I realize, might sound like stalking, but it's not, really; I woke up the other day and saw that she was among my new followers on Twitter and so I clicked on her profile and read her 60 or so tweets, and they gave me peace and relief; her micro-blog reflected the reasons we were ever together and validated my choice of her for that time in my life, even as they also validated our choices of different partners ultimately.)

She's purring so loudly -- Phoebe -- while her other mother sings in the shower off in the distance. Her little limb -- Phoebe's -- just slipped off my leg, and so I can tell she's falling asleep, and the purring is fading.

Two mornings ago, I had the worst nightmare, that I was in a colleague's car with both cats and the colleague wouldn't keep the doors shut, and the cats kept trying to exit the car. It was a dreadful feeling, imagining that if the cats got out, I'd never see them again, as they would dart off on some chaotic quest. They are not outdoor-cats, but they "hunt" birds and squirrels in our yard through the glass doors routinely.

Thank God, I woke up with Toonces doing her daily march over us, to wake us for feeding time.

Ode to a Cat

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

Phoebe-bo-bee-bee

Phoebe is a kneading lump in my lap
Tail, swinging, keeping time
Built-in, furry drum-stick, beating on
Wooden desk drawers to the right of my
Cat-pants-clothed knee

In Phoebe, I see envy, loneliness, anxiety
Competitiveness with her sister for our affections,
But her sense of competition doesn't seem self-defeating.

Fickle Phoebe, you nibbled just one love-bite on my wrist yesterday
It felt like a cat-kiss. Was it? Pat thinks so.

Phoebe needs to teach me to be more like her.

Cat Company

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

Pat's with David & Gerard

The girls are keeping me company on and off -- they swirl in and out of the room as I sit here, wishing for either of them to hop on my lap. Now, they're gone again. Am I being punished for getting home later than usual tonight?

Tonight, I'm finally pausing to try to read through the small book of my grandfather's Hebrew poetry that my aunt gave me when I lived in Jerusalem at 20. It contains 28 poems and I can understand only one stanza of the fourth one: "Chedri ("My Room"):"

Kal ha'adam li zar
Kal ha'olam li tzar
Oolam tov li m'od
B'toch chedri ha'kar.

Every person is a stranger to me
All the world is sorrowful to me
But it's very good for me
In my cold room.

Not too cheery! I never knew my grandfather. Now, I get to know him a little through the pieces of his poetry that I can make out.

Pat's home and the kitties are also commanding my attention!

What a Cat is Good for

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

More Uses than I Knew

One day a couple of weeks ago, I woke up, feeling exhausted and a bit down. I worked from home that day and discovered the extraordinary comfort of a kitty to pet.

Tonight, I'm going to bed early, so I can wake up and drive for 4.5 hours with one of my sisters and my mom to my cousin Shirley's funeral. I barely remember her, or her husband and kids...just that one of her sons sat at our Passover Seder table one year, reading "Mad" magazine.

It's not Shirley I'm mourning so much as the loss of my dad all over again.

Shirley was the last of his contemporaries in the family to go.

For no special reason, or maybe Phoebe is far more psychic than I've given her credit for, she's on my lap, doing her most endearing routine, which happens rarely, but which is extra-sweet: Phoebe's butting her body and head against my chest and looking straight up at me, exposing the white fur of her neck, which contains her whirring purr-box.

What a lovely comfort, which I didn't have back when I lost my dad of blessed memory (z"l) at 17. It's such a simple pleasure to pet a cat -- to feel her tail tap my leg, to see her yawn; all of these relax me so.

This afternoon, my mom and I visited a friend of my mother, who is in rehab, as he was rear-ended eight months ago by a 16-year-old, barreling around in a BMW SUV. My mom and her friend were swimming buddies; he was on his way to the JCC pool when it happened.

Today, he can move only his facial features and his left arm; he's right-handed. His left hand is in a permanent, loose fist.

Our conversation took us to Oliver Sacks, and Temple Grandin and animals, and the drooling, unwieldy dog he had, and to Pat's and my cats. I let him talk mostly about the dog, but I was missing Phoebe and Toonces as he told his stories.

If there is a simpler pleasure in response to paralysis and to death than kitty-petting, I cannot imagine what it is.

Cat-smitten

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions.

Who'd Have Guessed?

Phoebe makes me so happy, purring on my lap while I type here, that I've got nearly no drive to communicate. I'm using the excuse of typing to keep her lying here.

I'm wearing my "cat-pants," which are an old pair of charcoal-gray, Girbaud baggy pants, of thick, cotton-jersey, so that she can knead while purring and not scratch my thighs.

Who knew that she could make me feel like a child-like mother? Child-like because she's fun to have as company for petting, and like a mother because I want to ensure her safety and satedness.

I hope I learn to incorporate Phoebe into my creative process less disruptively at some point, but I can't help being joyfully distracted by her meanwhile.

Phoebe's First Blog Entry

The postings on this site are my own and don't necessarily represent IBM's positions, strategies or opinions. I'm Just Taking Dictation Why are you wearing these silly, nylon track-pants? How'm I supposed to get any traction as I perch on your lap? Suit yourself. You'll regret it once I start my kneading routine, which begins...now! If I keep head-butting your arms, will you stop typing and notice my purring self? I've had it! I'm getting off of your lap and onto your desk. I'm going to rub my face along the left side of your computer and wag my brown and gray striped tail at you because it disarms you. Here I come again. I'd rather your imperfect lap to that hard, wooden thing your computer's perched on -- More kneading -- You'll never wear these pants again when you blog. You'll know better. I do prefer to be affectionate when you're typing at your computer. When you're available and try to pet me, it's so much less fun. I like to look at you with a mysterious expression in my eyes -- hey, my claws keep getting caught on this weird fabric! -- and make you pay attention, but if you won't, well, I'll bathe myself. To do that, one of my claw-tipped paws will anchor me on your thigh. Yes, I'm purring because even though you're not really regarding me right now, you're a handy bathtub, if a precarious one. While I'm bathing, I'll send you my thoughts psychically, rather than talking with you directly, as I've been doing up to now: ~~You know, your friend, Marni, is likely correct about the pine-dust kitty litter she recommended. Probably it is better for my sister and me than the clay stuff. We do like that chicken and liver Fancy Feast stuff, though. We could eat that for every meal! The salmon kind? Not so much.~~ Bath over. What now? More bathing. I missed a spot. More anchoring. More purring. More gazing. More lounging. More mite-evicting by shaking my head. More curiosity. More fur on your keyboard, as you just noticed. Still, you adore me and I know it, and I work it, and I guess you're tolerable yourself.