Having a Cat After 40
Dopus maximus.
It may not sound too nice, but it’s the way my husband (henceforth known as RV) refers to our (or should I say my) gray and white furry creature.
Yes, the “mostly” Maine Coon in our possession is quite the dope, but he’s a harmless one.
His name is Humphrey, and we’ve had him (or I should say he’s had us) for going on seven long years.
It was August of 1999 when he wandered into the backyard of a friend of ours who lives about 45 miles away.
Only problem was, our cat-loving friend and his former wife already were the proud owners of eight felines and really were up to their whiskers in cats.
Humphrey must have gotten lost and smelled the other kitties around their house and thought that was a good place to hang his hat.
Our friends took him in and fed him, but felt he needed a permanent home. They even segregated him from the rest of the brood, to keep him (and the others!) safe. Apparently he was starting to get a bit too big for his paws. And claws. Enter us. The cat-less family. Mom, Dad, daughter and son Catless.
We had wanted to get an animal to share our lives, but somehow we always envisioned a dog. RV always wanted a big oaf, but instead he got Hump the Lump. Yes, like all furry felines he is a lump. A lump on the bed, a lump on the futon, a lump on the carpet, a lump on the chair, a lump everywhere.
Since we didn’t get him when he was a baby, we can’t really cuddle with him. Occasionally he allows me to pick him up and give him a hug, but within a minute he is squirming away to get down on the floor.
At least he’ll jump up and sit NEXT to me, but will never come up on my lap, sad to say.
He waits for us to come home ( I see the outline of his cute little pointy ears behind the window curtain) but as soon as we unlock the door he runs away.
Humphrey refuses to let on that he has been anxiously awaiting our return. That wouldn’t be cool. And we all know how cool cats are. Or think they are. Two years ago I traveled to Paris with my daughter’s French club and couldn’t stop thinking about how Humphrey was doing without his two favorite staffers at home. He clearly gravitates to us females in the house. He moped, RV reported. A lot. I even brought him back a can of French cat food as a souvenir, which I thought was a nice gesture. He wouldn’t touch it. I guess it didn’t smell like the turkey and giblets in a can you can buy in the States.
I do think about him often. Even though I doubt he’s thinking about me. Except in relation to his next meal. When he’s demanding, I tell him “not now, I’m busy.” When he’s bad, I tell him I’m going to get a replacement cat. (I’m not.) Truth be told, I’m never mad when Humphrey is demanding or bad.
He’s a friend. He cares about me, in his felinesque way. And that’s all I can ask.
