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.
But Judy wasn’t sure of our relationship. I
overheard her telling someone she didn’t like cats. What! Of course, she hadn’t
got to know me. It didn’t take long to convince her of my delightful and
charming character. I batted dog bows to the floor and made myself available to
the nervous dogs, rubbing up against them and purring. I weighed only a few
pounds back then and I took my naps curled up in a small basket of colorful
bows. At home I made sure my naps occurred in her lap after we watched movies
together.
