He's Noisier Than He Looks

It's kind of shocking, really. He makes strange noises I've never heard before. Always expressive, sometimes perturbed, and more often than not, kind of confused and like he's begging for attention. But when he runs and jumps-- that's when he's the loudest. And it's usually at 3am when he's chasing my other cat through the apartment. I got him for her, I tell her as she screeches past me. She seemed lonely. Well, trust me. She's not lonely anymore.

I'm probably breaking one of the cardinal rules of blogging. Not only did I not post for awhile. Now, on my first post in three days, I'm writing about my cats. I know it's not a winning topic say, on a first date... or any dates, really. Most men aren't that fond of cats. But I'm a cat person. Can't help it. I just am. I would also be a dog person if I had a yard and a house. But I don't. I have an apartment and a landlord who had problem enough when I got a roommate. Oh, he has a problem with the cat, too. But the cat was on my lease. And she's not black.

My first cat was a rescue. I saw her dragging herself out of traffic when she was a kitten. I could barely tell what she was. She was covered in gunk, had been hit by a car, her back legs didn't work and neither did her tail. Shaking, I pulled to the side of the road and coaxed-- well, actually dragged her out from underneath a car with the help of a fellow motorist and dirty blanket I found in someone's trash. Initially, the vets didn't think she'd make it. But then they did their vet magic and $1200 later, she was mine. Of course, the poor thing still had to be medicated and stay in a cage for a few weeks to make sure her legs healed properly. And then there was the little fact of the diaper. Try wearing one of those the first time you meet a bunch of comedy writers. She's a fighter, that one. But the new one, he's a lover and a player.

His favorite things to do are chase my other cat's tail, play with toilet paper, and watch television. He's also got a thing for water. He's jumped into the bathtub on more than one occasion, gotten saturated, and been perfectly fine with it. Nothing fazes him. He's happy, happy, happy. You can tell just by looking at his face. He was also a rescue. A woman who loves animals and makes a habit of saving them saved his life. She found him barely alive in some South Central yard. He had been infested with fleas, malnourished, dehydrated and a few other things that weren't cheap to fix. He was missing patches of fur when I got him. Now he's good as new and he wants everyone to know it.

Even though I planned to make my next animal a dog, I was won over by the sign I saw posted in Runyon Canyon with his story. The woman named him "Will" because he had the will to live. I couldn't resist him. Sure, he couldn't go hiking with me or anywhere with me, really. But he could use a litter box and on some days in Runyon, I wish all the dogs could, too. I haven't gotten much sleep since I got Will and neither has my other cat. He wakes us both up by chasing her, usually to my bed where they play for awhile and treat my body like a freeway. It's a good thing I'm not dating someone, I think as I get woken up at 3am. Uh, yeah. Right. Good thing. Believe it or not, I've actually told a few guys I've met recently about this blog. And I'm still writing this. Well, so now they know. My dirty little secret. I have cats. Two cats.