September 2013 – TheFurFiles

Kevin is my neighbour. He lives three doors down from us. So do his cats – two of them.

When I go for walks with MY cats – yes, they DO walk on leashes, too bad it’s like walking with two schizophrenic and very disobedient dogs – I often see “Kevin’s cats” sitting quietly, calmly, on his porch. They look at us like we are very strange – “lock these weirdos up” crazy almost. So does Kevin. So do all of my neighbours, in fact. I could cat less. I just want my cats to experience life without getting run over by a truck.

I just want my cats to be happy, and I don’t mind being tortured while they pull this way and that to eat the grass and chase the odd bumble bee or squirrel. Why can’t people just let us live?

Last time we went past Kevin’s house, Kevin’s cats were nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, one appeared from around the side, near the eavestrough. His eyes piercing and determined, he looked like he wanted to eat my cats, and to kill me. He slowly walked toward us. Bravely, my cats took one step forward, and then – like they’d been shot or something – they took off in retreat, racing home with me in tow, making me look like the biggest loser on the planet. Lionel – in his distress – even tried to climb the street lamp and then he fell back down. It was not my proudest “I love my cats to a fanatical extreme” moment. There was even a girl who witnessed the whole event. She snickered.

Having been scared off by “Kevin’s cats”, I told my furry babies that soon we’d go back to seek our revenge, to reclaim our territory, to tell these “other” cats, who really owns this street. It will be Abyssinian versus Himilayan (or whatever the heck they are), short fur versus long, “bordering on god-like good” versus terribly, terribly evil. Yes, WE WILL PREVAIL.

And then the other day, THIS was on our porch. It was one of Kevin’s cats. Oh, no he didn’t. The battle is on! When Your Cat And Your Neighbour's Cat Do NOT Get Along | TheFurFiles

BTW, my dad says that Kevin’s cats have big heads with scrawny bodies. They shouldn’t be too hard to take down.

NOTE: I would NEVER hurt another cat, not even one who interlopes on my property to upset my own. I’ll just pat them secretly when mine aren’t looking, and then wash my hands thoroughly so no one smells the adversaries. No one will be the wiser.

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My husband and I fell in love in the 1980’s. It was a magical time. We didn’t see daylight for a good two years there. It’s amazing that we made it through undergrad. 😉

Right now, I’m missing him terribly. Well, not “terribly” terribly – like I’m not about to throw myself in front of a hay baling machine. And I am kind of enjoying the fact that I get to sprawl out in an x-formation across our bed at night.

He is away for a month doing some military training. He says that with my distaste for authority, I wouldn’t last a millisecond doing what he’s doing. He said that I would’ve spontaneously combusted on the very first day. He’s probably right. When I was eight, I couldn’t even make it though one Brownies’ meeting – too many rules. Anyway, all I can think about now – in his absence – is that one week is officially down, and we have three more long weeks to go.

This solo parenting really bites the big one. I was forced to eat celebratory pizza the other night at 1:30 a.m. after my son’s first show with his new band line-up. It was so deliciously hard to stuff down my throat.

But enough about me. This blog post is about my husband, and the circumstances surrounding his absence. Poor man. His hours right now are extremely long, and even though he brought this situation on himself by signing up for something when he’s already ridiculously busy, I feel marginally sorry for him [insert tiny violin playing here].

Last night, he asked me if I missed him.

Such a stupid question. “Of course, I do,” I said.

“Good, now don’t spend any unnecessary money.” He’s so romantic.

“I won’t. I might be looking for a dresser for our bedroom though.”

“Don’t.” He can be a real party-pooper. I just want our house to look stylish – not like the thrift store dumping ground that it usually resembles.

And that was the end of our conversation. It’s was lights out in the military barracks. I didn’t even have time to tell him that I’m thinking “mid-century modern credenza style furniture” as opposed to the typical “dresser” dresser.

All kidding/shopping aside, I miss my husband. And since we haven’t had much time to talk on the telephone, I’ve written him this love letter, which may or may not really just be the lyrics to a really bad 80’s song. I think it really captures the essence of how I’m feeling right now.

He should be able to read it tonight before he goes to bed, if he’s not off doing military stuff in the bushes somewhere (which I think he might be), and getting eaten by mosquitoes, but hopefully not by bears.

Love Letter, 1980's Style | TheFurFiles