Sunday, October 15, 2017

Short for Annihilator

This is Anna. 
Anna is a study in hesitation.

Anna thinks 17 times before jumping off the bed, extending one paw off it at a time, trying to gauge whether this is a wise decision or not. "Should I stay here forevermore? Should I perhaps take this bold leap to go where I actually go everyday, multiple times? Will this end badly for me?" He lands clumsily, looking startled at the jolt. He walks about the house looking worried that something will attack him, a fear not at all unfounded as he walks into a wall 20 seconds later, his body folding into itself, crumpling like an accordion. He routinely steps into the water bowl, looks at his sodden paw in dismay and shakes it vigorously. Sometimes he steps into one food bowl while eating out of another, because he just doesn't realise it's there. He starts at soft noises, jumps a foot in the air when we turn the music on, retreats under the couch whenever he sees anyone new.

Poor Anna lives in fear of his own existence.

We've gotten his eyes tested, we've taken him to the vet and asked her what on earth is wrong with him and she says not a damn thing my friends, he's in the pink of health, he's an adorable healthy little monkey. So we scratch our heads, shrug, and go on. Anna's been home for 4 years, and he's happy and comfortable with us, and with our other cat - our stupidly handsome pure white idiotcat full of swag and bluster, who takes care of him, grooms him, plays with him, keeps him company when fireworks are the sound of the season and Anna is trying very hard to will the world to go away post-haste.

A comfortable relaxed Anna looks like a beautiful loaf of brown bread.

I rub his head and he closes his eyes in rapture and asks for more. I move down to his neck, he extends it and asks for moremoremoremore, his little (usually nervous) face so incredibly smiley. I move to his back and petpetpet him and his body thrums happily. I move to his bum and give it a little scritch-scratch and I feel disturbances in the infrastructure. His muscles ripple like sand shifting on a dune, over and over again. (The kind where you have to look again to see whether it's a trick of the light or whether the shape of the dune really is changing is there a mirage around the corner is this just fantasy?) He cocks his head to one side as though he's wondering what I'm doing and hey this isn't half bad but wtf? His head swivels about looking for me, looking for the hand that is doing these wonderous and strange things, where is it? Little pulses trill through his body like sine waves - there's one, there's another, there's one more (I could plot them on a graph and figure out their frequency, what fun), all caused by the butt scratch. And when he decides he's had enough; he gets up and walks all over the keyboard on my open laptop, putting music on, sending gibberish mails to my clients, writing reams of text that will one day be deciphered to be feline research papers on the complexities of catnaps. He takes one exploratory round of my bed, walks up to me and curls up next to my feet. All is well, all is happy, until I make the slightest movement, at which point he might need a defibrillator.

I love that stupid fur factory. Poor thing probably needs therapy.