Cats = baby substitute
On Sunday, for no reason whatsoever, I put on The Cure’s Show Me CD and danced all over the house in tank top and underwear, singing along at the top of my lungs. My only witness, the cat, was not amazed. Or amused.
This time of year, when I like the windows open when it’s cold out, she’s like a furry little Jame Gumb (Buffalo Bill) from Silence of the Lambs. I dance, I sing, I open cans, I throw little tinfoil balls across the room, and all I get for my efforts is a glare that says, “It puts the fire in the fireplace. It does this whenever it's told. Put the f*cking fire in the fireplace!" I think she’d poke me with a stick if she could.