Some of you have asked about my cat, hoping he is fine, complaining that I hadn’t written about him. Well, let me assure you that PeeDee is just fine.
He is now more than 12 years old. Amazing, isn’t it? But he can still jump up on his favorite perch on the porch and on the bed, although he is not happy with the down comforter. Walking on it still puzzles him.
He’ll be happier when spring comes and the comforter gets put away and the soft, not-bouncy spread comes back out of the closet. He loves sitting on the window seat. That window seat is one of the reasons I bought this house. I had wanted one ever since the girls in the novels I read as a youngster always seemed to have a window seat where they could sit knitting or reading or crying over some hurt. Finally, I had one.
No, I don’t knit there and it’s too cramped to read on for very long and it’s been quite a while since I’ve cried over a hurt. But PeeDee really enjoys it, and the size is just right for him.
He is big. He was such an adorable little kitten when he came here to live. He has grown into a large, wonderful, longhaired cat. He is truly handsome. His coloring — shades of gray with a bit of white thrown in — is beautiful.
I think I told you about the photographer who was here to shoot something else but fell in love with PeeDee and concentrated on pictures of him. He is very laid back. No trip to London to look at the Queen for him, and he might frighten the little mouse under the chair, but he wouldn’t hurt him. (You do know the poem, “Little mouse, little mouse, where have you been? I’ve been to London to look at the Queen,” don’t you?)
There have been some fun poems and songs about cats long before T.S. Eliot and the very popular musical, “Cats.” One of my favorites was in “Lady and the Tramp.” It’s “I am Siamese, if you please; I am Siamese if you don’t please” et al.
And that’s the way it is with our feline friends. They are what they are, loving, purring, warm and faithful companions. And they can learn, too. PeeDee knows when he is asked “Water?” to walk to the bathroom and jump up to the sink to drink. When the treats don’t come often enough, he’ll walk to the drawer where they are kept and sit there staring at the drawer until I notice. When he is tired of being brushed, he’ll put his head on my hand as though to say, “OK, time to stop, please.”
A catwalk is something you’ll never find me on. Heights and I don’t get along. Catcalls are cruel, I think. A catty woman is to be avoided. Why does the word “cat” get attached to such un-nice things? There’s even a cat burglar.
Well, I won’t let PeeDee know about those distasteful things; they are not related to him. I might tell him about the word clowder, though. Google says that’s the word for a group of cats. CLAWder would be better, wouldn’t it?
Anyway, thanks for asking. PeeDee is just fine.