Breathing Room

The great thing about this quarantine is that it’s giving me some breathing room.  I get to see Bugs in a new way.

Up til now, as I’ve known him over the past year or so, I had the feeling he had become restless.  Morose.  That in my absolute insistence that he quit mauling me – which he has done completely, I rejoice to say – he was left feeling perhaps a bit confused about who he was.  Not the fierce monster mankitten in the fullness of his close-to-feral edgy intensity – but if not that, then what?

I struggled against these conclusions.  I feared I was projecting on him my own restlessness and moroseness.  Now I’m wondering whether those perceptions were in fact accurate.  Those of you who have been advocating getting another cat, for some time now, were onto this?  You were saying that what Bugsy really needed was a feline companion and, without one, he may in fact have been restless and morose?

This morning at 4:30, I awoke to the sound of a train-wreck:  Fangie crashing around in Base Camp, knocking hell out of his bell-ball.  Bugs, in his turn, chirping inquisitively, was joining in through the bottom of the door.  This uproar went on for around fifteen minutes.

I’ve taken to using a piece of cardboard to flap around, as I enter Base Camp, to make as much of a presence as possible to keep Fangie inside and Bugs out.  After the train-wreck subsided, when I got up to use the loo, I found Bugsy camped out on this cardboard, grooming.  Fun stuff.

Here’s another observation.  Bugs is generally acting more affectionately toward me.  I can see this definitely, by contrast.  Up to now, his affection had been rare and intermittent. Now, more often, he’s close by and purring.  He’s doing this gratuitously, with no treats involved.  After Fangie quieted down this morning, Bugs did this thing he’s invented and every time he does it, I know affection will follow.  He jumps up on the foot of the bed.  Then he carefully teeters up me, my whole length.  When he reaches my head, he starts purring, and then he commences to biscuit-make on my chest.  Then he walks over to a memory-foam pillow I keep beside me – he loves this pillow, but only in these kinds of moments – and makes biscuits on the pillow.  Then he comes over and gently head-butts me, once or twice only.  Then, if my computer is closed beside me, he moves over to sit on the computer and groom a bit.  Then he’s off again somewhere else.

Mr. Quicksilver Lightfoot.  Mr. Mercury.

I’m fascinated by this and I’m loving it.

In the meantime, I get to indulge in my very favorite thing:  High Drama.  In the photo you’re about to see, there was absolutely nothing of the subtext my imagination created.  So you see here, in defiance of reality, I get to enjoy myself.  Lean into it.  It’s the freedom, you see.  The sheer operatic running-wildness of it all.

The truth of this shot has nothing to do with what I saw in my mind’s eye.

What was really happening was that Bugsy was simply minding his own business, surveying the scene from high.  When I messed with his vibe by taking the picture, he gathered up his dignity and went off to cogitate somewhere else.

We’re all having fun here.  I think.