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27 february 2002

when harry met wilma, part III

Having raised only one cat until Harry came along, I naively figured that tabbies came in one basic size and shape, maxing out at just under 15 pounds. They grow a little extra belly to keep them warm, and that's that.

Apparently, this is not the case.

When someone comes to my house for a visit, Wilma and Harry (Winston's most freakishly affectionate cats) dart to the door and sniff/roll over/head butt for a scratch from the new visitor. Every single person who walks through my door has one question:

"How old did you say Harry is now?"

"Eight months."

"Oh, good Lord, Kim. He's a...um...big boy."

I didn't think much of his rapid growth until the fifth or sixth person mentioned it. But when I looked more closely, Harry is just about the same size as Wilma these days, only a bit leaner. Judging from the licked-clean food dishes each afternoon, and the ongoing crunching sounds I sometimes hear at night, Harry is having yet another growth spurt. At this rate, I'm a little concerned that I mistakenly brought home a Great Dane. Not only is he a big boy now, but all of his hair makes him look even bigger.

I'm starting to notice other stuff, too. Harry's voice is changing, just like Wilma's did a few months ago. With Wilma, I didn't notice as quickly because she doesn't say much. The only time I ever hear her is immediately following the good-morning breakfast pounce. "Feed me. I will now sit on your chest like a vulture until you rise."

Harry, on the other hand...well, we all know how Harry sounds. Call me sometime. No, it's not bad reception or sirens on the street below. It's Harry, who is perturbed at you for momentarily diverting my attention from him. In the past few days, his little voice has begun to crack, just like an adolescent boy. What was once a sustained siren sound is now a somewhat lower, mee-yeerk. He is notably frustrated. I've been accommodating with some extra snacktime. I hear you, Harry. Don't strain yourself.

All of these physical evolutions are fun, and bittersweet, like changing seasons. The thing that's really fun to watch, though--the stuff that makes you laugh out loud--is the affection that runs rampant in our home. Neither of them has ever been aloof like a cat is supposed to be. They don't get a chance with me around, always grabbing a mouse, or tickling, or grabbing for a big hug. Where I am, they are. Where Wilma is, so is Harry, and vice-versa.

These two don't know that people can be bad to them, and I don't want them to find out.

A couple of days ago, Harry walked by Wilma as she was camped on the floor. As he made his way to the food bowl, he gently licked her nose, and nudged her head a bit. Love you. Time for lunch.

Yesterday, I looked behind me in the den. Something new. Wilma was resting her head on Harry's belly, with his paw laid gently on her.

This morning, I awoke to what is becoming the new custom. Harry's head is directly next to mine on the pillow. He's belly-up, licking my face and pawing my nose. Wilma has assumed the vulture stance. Either by sweetness or inducing fear, they will get breakfast. Now.

15 pounds is right around the corner.