CAT NAPS AND DREAMS

Judy left me to my own devices for the six days of the conference. Judy explained she would be leaving early and coming home late. “Would you work on your blog this week?” she asked. “And maybe work on the scene with you at the campground in Oklahoma?”

“Sure,” I answered. I want to carry my weight even if it is only ten pounds. Judy pointed out the followers swarming to our website since I began blogging two weeks ago. I know my body language screams don’t come near, but inside I’m just a pussy cat. Oprah and Dr. Phil explain my aloofness as a defense mechanism. Once I read your e-mails and blogs, I’ll roll over, expose my tummy and allow for our relationship to mature into belly scratches.

Judy told me about a cat on Twitter named Sockington who has over a million and a half followers. Boy! I’d like to meet him.

My intentions were good the first day. I went from window to window and gazed at the trees and studied the sea gulls that perched on the dumpster. My mind raced with story possibilities. It seemed like hours passed but it was only minutes. The fog had not lifted and the haze made my eyelids heavy. Maybe just a cat nap.  

I gave up the hunt for the perfect blog subject and dreamt of sea gulls swooping and diving above me. Their high pitched peeps answered my chirps and I marveled at their grace, like feathers floating on the horizon. The blue-green painting pounded out a washing machine rhythm that forced my little heart to beat in sync. The ferociousness of the waves was captured by the arc of the birds’ flight and evaporated, and my pulse flowed and ebbed with the surge of the water’s inhale and exhale.

When I awoke the rushing noise of the traffic had diminished and I heard Judy’s footfall in the gravel outside the RV’s door. I scrambled to be at the door waiting when she swung it open.

“Oh you are such a good cat, Sportster. I’ll bet you’ve been waiting by the door all day.” She plopped her bags on the chair and swept me up, burying her face into my fur. I liked it but twisted to be released and took my perch on the chair’s arm. I could see Judy was tired. She flitted around the space, getting coffee ready for morning, laying out her PJs and never noticed the pair of rolled up crew socks I deposited at her feet. This morning I had pressed the soft cotton ball between my paws with no thumbs and kicked it, sending the missile shooting into the air. Judy laughed, catching it and tossed it back over my head. I leaped up catching the imaginary robin with the grace of the dancers I’d watched in the Nutcracker Ballet.

But tonight she just stumbled over the toy and I waited until she collapsed on the couch to climb upon her lap. The rest of the days and nights were copy cats of the first.  At night before we dozed off, she filled me in on the authors and aspiring authors she had met, the agents she wooed and the workshop leaders she revered. I wished I could have gone with her. I am sure if I had attended, I too, would have been instilled with the energy and passion she exuded even in her exhaustion.