person, place…miss thing
Monday 22 August 2005 | I like a cookie
As if on cue Eloise enters, dragging her old yellow washcloth between her forelegs, and commences to maul it before my very eyes; for some reason she prefers it to all the other five-bucks-a-pop toys from the Rhinestone Pet Boutique—maybe the texture? Or maybe she hates it. She only does this to the yellow ones, which one of my students presented me with for her Miss Tribal College giveaway.
So here’s the Weasel in a calmer moment:
She plays fetch, tirelessly, with her beloved crackle ball, a vulgar little bright-pink-and-foil thing; or with furry mice from China which are supposed to be made humanely (?!) from real rabbit fur (?!?). That one confuses me so much I just buy them for her by the half-dozen and try not to think about it. After a time the ball/mouse will grow slightly damp and she wheezes a bit and stops bringing it back. She loves maguro nigiri (as indeed we all do) and climbing on things that aren’t meant to be climbed on—my tiny furry Lynn Hill. She pines to go outside and I don’t let her, because of the cars and the coyotes. I worry constantly whether I’m being overprotective—but that’s just what an overprotective mother would do, is worry, isn’t it. Her nicknames include but are not limited to:
- Weasel
- Sneezy-Beezle
- Beezer
- Tweezle
- Louise (this is when she’s in trouble)
- Weetzie
- Weetz
- Miss Thing
- Beets
and a really goofy sentimental one (that is, even more so than those already listed) which I’ll never reveal. [Oh, okay. Mommy’s Girl.]
I talk to her constantly, and she mrrrts back and occasionally says mowe. I’m sure the neighbors think I’m absolutely potty. Have you seen The Crazy Cat Lady Action Figure? Small plastic cats included—or if you’ve seen one of the Simpsons episodes in which the Crazy Cat Lady actually throws cats at a fleeing Lisa—then you’ll understand my concern in this department. I don’t want to be yet another late-forty-something soy-chai-sipping Pathfinder-driving sun-damaged Santa Fe yogini divorcée, with long grey/white hair that she pins up with chopsticks and those baggily elegant Eileen Fishery clothes in raw silk and hemp, sage and maize and rust and charcoal! I won’t, I tell you, I won’t!
(In which Unnarrator pauses, realizes she sounds like a madwoman, tries to calm down—no more white peony for you today, my dear. Scrapes the last spoonful of yogurt from the container, gets yogurt on the handle of the spoon and thence transfers it to her nose. Looks around the room, takes stock, writes a couplet, reassembles.)
When I have fears that I may cease to be,
I often find I’ve drunk far too much tea.
The cat-colored cat, after eating two microscopic crumbs of potato chip (Terra Olive Oil and Red Bliss), has hopped onto the nightstand and is drinking serenely from my water glass. Why do I even try.
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