: : home     : : reviews     : : days gone by     : : litmag     : : who?     : : contact    

7 september 2000

wilma makes a...um...friend

WELL, much to my delight, I am out of Richmond and settling comfortably back into life in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. I'm not gone for good, as there are a few loose ends to tie over the next few weeks, but I'm elated nonetheless. Between the David Wilcox CD's, and a few turns of James Taylor's Carolina on My Mind, my drive was just sentimental and joyous enough. It is nice to be home, and I don't plan on leaving again anytime soon.

If recent mail from you guys is any indication, however, you don't want to hear how my move went. You want to hear how Wilma handled it! Eight weeks old and already she's got a regular fan club. This, for a gal who just discovered that her feet are actually attached to her body, and not random furry attackers. I'm happy to say that she travelled quite well, although she did begin the day more neurotically than usual. It's partially my fault, as I only got three hours of sleep and have done nothing but make a big ruckus during the packing. Wilma knew something was up, and was bound to hide under the coffeetable until I told her what gives.

That, and I woke her at 6:30 a.m. Lesson: Wilma is not a morning cat.

So I'm packing the last of my stuff, and trying to keep my eye on her out on the deck, when I realize there is more activity out there than I'm used to seeing. Why? Because today is the day that Wilma realizes that she can jump. High. So she's out there, bouncing around like a guest at Cindy Margolis' beach party, trying to catch every falling leaf, butterfly, and insect that crosses her path. I realize as I throw the last of my things into boxes, that I'm worrying like some kind of ninny that she's going to break something or sprain her back. Visions of Wilma in traction are almost too much for me to take, and I interrupt what I'm doing to run outside, give her hugs, and lecture her on being careful and stuff like my mom used to.

She continues hopping around as if the deck is her personal mosh pit. I resign myself to the fact that I may have a raver on my hands

The ride down to NC was pretty uneventful, until I arrived at my friend Linda's house. That's where Wilma met her housemate for the next week or so --- Tajimora, the Great Big Boy Cat. She was not amused, but didn't know quite what to think. Frankly, neither did I. I just thought they'd high-four one another, sniff, and go out for a beer later. You know, hang out. Meow mixer.

Okay, so that totally did NOT happen. Taji wasn't exactly mean or anything. He just kind of sneered at Wilma, took a couple of steps toward her, and meowed in a rather surly tone. Wilma, on the other hand, completely bugged out. She arched up her back (just like in the cartoons!), whimpered, and then she did this really peculiar nose thing that I can't adequately describe. It was wiggly.

They continued to stare at one another, one as puzzled as the other. Eleven-pound Taji was no doubt thinking that one-pound Wilma was either a wind-up toy, or a snack. And I'm sure Wilma was definitely leaning toward "snack". Just when I thought it might get ugly, Taji got bored, made a snerf sound, and walked off, satisfied that we were all clear on one important matter --- he is the man of the house, and Wilma will probably end up getting sucked into the vacuum cleaner.

Oh yeah. So far, so good. It's going to be an interesting weekend. I'll let you know if rolling Wilma in dog hair, applying her newfound jumping skills, and teaching her how to bark does any good.