It happens every morning. As soon as the alarm goes off (and even when it doesn’t) I open my eyes to find my cat sitting on the floor, staring at me. At first, it was strange; like I was under cat-observation. It makes me wonder, what does she think about when she is sitting there, just waiting for me to get up?
I am not a “cat person.” I always feel the need to make that clear. My house does not have a cutesy little bowl with tiny paw prints. We do not have kitty condos, or a bunch of cat-nip-laced fake mice, or fuzzy little balls cluttering my floor. But Peanut (I didn’t pick her name, it came with her when she was rescued from a neglectful neighbor) is not your typical cat. She is much more dog-like, in that she comes when she is called, is not the least bit skittish around us, the vacuum, or the dog. She does exude confidence, which is her most cat-like quality. Honestly, I think she believes she is a person.
Peanut has a coat of orange and white, with no discernible pattern. She was a scrawny, dirty cat, living outdoors when my daughter, Ali took pity on her and began feeding her away from the other bully cat that lived across the street. Ali would stand guard while Peanut ate her fill of dry cat food and drank fresh water. When Ali got her own place, she made certain to get one that was pet friendly. She took Peanut, after informing the neighbor that she would be taking the cat with her. When Ali came home for a while, Peanut came too, and has remained.
Her food dish is full each morning, because if it is lacking during the night, she complains. The gentle, but firm nudging is meant to be a polite request to add food to her dish. The dish does not have to be entirely empty. If she can see the bottom of the bowl, she begins to feel threatened. I surmise this from her reaction if I don’t get up instantly. Then comes the head pat. A consistent tapping to my temple is usually all that it takes to get me out of bed. After the temple pat, comes the hair pull.
But, if we make it all night without the emergency dish fill, I am subject to scrutiny of the feline kind. She waits, and stares, and stares and waits. We go down the stairs, quietly, because we are the only ones up. As we descend the steps, the dog wakes up and begins his slow, creaky trek to the kitchen door. Out he goes. Then Peanut gets her treats, before I start the coffee, thank you. We’ve tried it the other way, and she complains. Loudly.
Peanut keeps our morning routine on track. I am escorted to my shower, while she patiently waits for me to finish getting myself ready for work, stretching out on the fluffly bathmat. Somebody must keep me on schedule, or so she thinks. And for her loyalty and conscientious time keeping, she is rewarded by lounging on my bed the entire day. Peanut has selected her spot down by my feet, unless my husband is in bed by himself, at which point she sleeps up closer to his hands, so he can pet her. When the sun is at the “just right spot,” she suns herself in our spare room, curled up in the chair. She loves having company in the house, but is not too wild about them living in her room. She will sit outside the closed door and stare at it, waiting for it to open. In the evening, she cuddles either on my lap or next to us on the couch. So, she has entrenched herself, and has seemingly always been part of the family.
The transformation from the skinny, filthy, scared cat she was, to the round, sleek confident cat she is now has been remarkable. All brought about by a daily does of love and affection. And, though I am not a “cat-person,” I do count myself lucky that Peanut, is a “people-cat.”