Divorcing My Cat

          Audrey must know something’s going on. She’s sitting on

my desk, facing away from me, her face almost touching the

mirror that rests against the wall, the mirror that used to hang in

my beautiful Coarsegold bathroom: carved sandalwood. I bought

it at Cost Plus, 11 years ago, when we were building our house.

          I haven’t been sleeping well in weeks. It’s Audrey’s fault. She didn’t used to be like this. I remember when John rescued her, in 2005. She was a scrawny 5-month old cat, with a disfigured nose. I thought it was a harelip but the vet said it was probably a wound, from sleeping under the hood of a car: a clean cut from her nostril to her mouth, so that I could see her teeth and gums. It’s better now, her nose is russet and wet and the slit is smaller, barely revealing her tiny front row teeth.

          Back then she lived in the screened in garden. In the house was Lydia, our Abyssinian. In the garage was Jane, another rescue. When Lydia got sick and decided to sleep in the newspaper basket in the kitchen, instead of coming to bed with me, I brought Audrey in and she stayed in my bedroom-bathroom.  When Lydia died, the next April, Audrey had the run of the house, but her litter box was still in the bathroom; and food was kept up on the ½ wall between the tub and toilet, so Walter couldn’t get it.

          When we moved to Texas, I assumed we’d stick to the same routine. I no longer had my luxurious big, bright, carpeted bathroom with that huge window looking up onto the hill.  I had a teeny bathroom with a stall shower. I stuck the litter box in a lower closet. I put her food on the small sink. I got used to leaving the water on each morning, after I’d I brushed my teeth, so she could drink – she only likes moving water.

          Things went pretty well, until recently.  Instead of staying down by my feet at night, she’s been getting under the covers, like Phoebe used to do. But Phoebe was an 8-pound Burmese, whose small curled up body fit perfectly against my stomach. When I’d turn over, she’d get up, walk around my head, and get back in the other side. We slept like this for 19 years.

          Audrey is twice as big. When she presses against me, she shoves me, nearly off the bed. She’s hot. I sweat. I feel like I’m being smothered.

I end up sleeping on my stomach with my head twisted, my neck aching, but at least I can keep her away with my elbows. Then, before first-light, she presses her cold wet nose against my nose, to wake me up.

          Thus, I woke up today before I should have and have been tired all day. Plus, when I went to clean her litter box, I discovered she had peed all over the newspaper underneath, and pee had soaked through into the closet. That was it.

          I took her litter box into the laundry room. I sprinkled baking soda over the wet pee.  I took the food bowl into the kitchen and dumped it in with her plastic margarita glass on the counter.  Then I did a major over haul of the bathroom, and took down the Indian hanging that was blocking the entrance from the hall; it’s hanging in my office now and can be seen from the kitchen and living room, when my office door is open.
          My friend Barbara recommended Major Pettigrew . .  something-or-other, so I ordered it for my Kindle and will read it in bed tonight, before I go to sleep. The first night of my divorce.