I can't do anything without my kitties. Seriously. Unless I tuck them away in their bedroom, they are with me, they are near me, they are on me, they are watching me. It's sweet for awhile, but they do make it difficult to accomplish any sort of task.
The other day, I was doing dishes and all of them were crying at my feet and climbing my legs. I tried to redirect their focus by pulling a chair into the kitchen and piling them on the seat.
This kept them busy for awhile, but eventually they figured out they could jump from the arm of the chair to the counter.
There are so many. There are invisible cat hairs everywhere. I can't brush them all off my clothes, no matter how I try. I'll get up to go somewhere and I will suddenly feel cat hairs tickling my face like I've walked into a cobweb. Or I'll pour myself a glass of water, because I'm parched -a glass of fresh water from the tap, in a clean glass and halfway through I'll start choking on tickly cat hairs that have somehow gotten in. Sometimes I nod off without knowing it and wake up covered in a sheet of hair.
I can't do anything without them. If I go to the bathroom, they meow and scratch, scratch, scratch, their little paws under the door. I try and watch television and they flood my lap, they block the screen. I can't answer the phone for all the meowing. I can't go out, because they are always underfoot. Besides, I can't get the cat hairs off my clothes, my hair, my eyes.
I wonder: where do they keep coming from? How they know I'm here? I never asked for them. I never name them. I used to be alone, alone. They come quick, they come so easily. They come so many, like lies.
There are so many of them, lying, prowling, napping, fighting, playing everywhere. On the stairs, on the shelves, the lamps, the cupboards. Covering my books, my clothes, the chairs, sofa, counter, the sinks, the sills, the radiator, the toaster, the oven, the stove, the refrigerator, the bed, the floor beside the bed, the spots by the window where the sun shines through, in my shoes, the umbrella stand, the radio. The living room is a vast meadow of solid, quiescent, recumbent cats, all breathing as one. Then suddenly they are up all moving as one, a giant undulating feline wave, lapping at me, the shore.
Did I mention that I'm slightly allergic?
Do they think I am a kind person? They are indifferent to my kindness, they are oblivious to my cruelty. I am smarter than they are, but to them I am dumb.
The truth is, we inhabit each other, like a sweater.
I fall asleep sometimes and they stroke my hair. They are here, I think, to usher me towards something. I don't know what, or why or why it takes so many. But where do they keep coming from, and where are we going?