"I love our new kitty."
My head jolted to where my husband stood over the stove, "You love our new kitty?"
"Yes," he replied sheepishly.
"I think you really mean it!"
Having endured a few months of ridicule for bringing home a stray, my heart swelled with pride. I knew God led me to Eggs, Our Calico, Tabby cat, even if I found her in the open wild of an apartment complex. It had taken time, but my husband caught on.
Eggs is not an "oh, pet me please" kitty. She loves attention and greets me every morning by stretching out on the carpet, on her side, waiting for me to play "bat hands".
Most of the time, she doesn't use her claws. However, she inevitably goes in for the bite.
As I yelp in pain and growl, "No biting! No biting!" she maintains an air of innocence. We definitely have some training yet to do, but her wild side adds such a diversion in our home that we enjoy her anyway.
She runs with abandon when the mood hits. Up and down the stairs. From our living room to our bed and back again.
She rolls around on three kitchen chairs, placed side by side, chasing her tail.
When we first left her upstairs for the night with our bedroom door open, she jumped on us at five in the morning, ready to play. Having never been ambushed by a kitty in my sleep, I found it quite amusing.
She threw toys around in the middle of the night, walked all over us, and even stared at us for a while, making sure we wouldn't wake. Fortunately, she now sleeps under the bed till morning.
At least for this week.
After enduring four days of a cat in heat (another story for another time), a vet took care of things. As Eggs healed, I filled a bird feeder outside our large picture window for her amusement. She spent hours on our kitchen chairs, staring out the window.
But the birds dropped seed on the porch and the squirrels came looking. And when the squirrels lingered too long, Don pulled out his pellet gun.
Who knew feeding the birds would lead to dead squirrels.
I didn't grow up in a family of hunters, so the city girl in me gets antsy when the country boy in my spouse rises up.
When he showed me a picture last week of a skinned squirrel cooking on our grill, my insides twirled. I had been away for the day so he'd killed and grilled and eaten the creature before I arrived home. All evidence discarded, I had no idea I'd slept next to a man digesting squirrel.
When he confessed, I felt conflicted. I knew Don grew up on a big farm where they hunted a good majority of their food. But I didn't. I grew up the daughter of a Delta pilot, vacationing in far away places, dressed in fine linen and silk... well, not really.
We vacationed in far away places on a budget, but that budget never involved eating backyard squirrel.
When I used that term as we lay in bed, Don chuckled, "There's no such thing as backyard squirrel. There's just squirrel."
"No," I replied, "You ate backyard squirrel - suburban Atlanta backyard squirrel. There's a big difference."
In case you're wondering, according to Don, they taste the same as country-born squirrel.
Bottom line, after a long night of sleep, I woke singing this song. Why I woke singing this song, I can't explain. But after a few heavy weeks, where loss tangled deep with life, I celebrated resurfacing. Cause I could only wake up writing this kind of song, if I'd finally come through to other side.
So if you're in need of a rich, meaningful blog post end, check out last weeks post: Part of Me.
Cause this week, I'm closing with a politically incorrect video of my latest song. Please don't be offended. It made me laugh at myself and our differences.
And I just needed a laugh.
Happy Thanksgiving! Please know I'm very grateful for all of you, for the fact you take time to read my posts and comment. You mean a great deal to me.
Now, on to Backyard Squirrel:
photo credit: Margherita is Coffeeholic.... Just Like Me via photopin (license)
photo credit: goldfinch at feeder, 29 Jan 2015 via photopin (license)
photo credit: Breeze Playtime 2, 12 Aug 13 via photopin (license)
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