Updated at post time. Originally posted June 26, 12:27 am.
Oh my goodness. She was NOT being a princess when I stood at the toilet, requiring me to manually hand her down. She understood me better than I understood. Just now I was in that stepladder position again. Again, she hopped onto the toilet back and immediately onto shower stall railing. Immediately she began meowing, I thought, as I had previously, to handle her down. I stepped away and motioned to her to jump onto my shoulders three or four times. She was tempted, but hesitated and refused. Then the 💡went on in my head. I was standing in my undershirt; I shoo her away from jumping on my shoulders unless I have my special Eleven claws body armor on, a thick cotton long-sleeve shirt that my daughter bought me. I hurried to the bed where I had left the body armor shirt, hurried back, buttoning it. "Click-click," I noised and patted my shoulder. She jumped. 🫶😻We got a special thing, we do.
You know how when you are so in love, just saying the other person's name gives you butterflies in your stomach?
"Eleven" "Eleven" "Eleven"
It's a beautiful name. It rolls off the tongue easily. No hard consonants, it sounds almost French it's so mellifluous.
Eleven is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Soft as her name, tiny, completely feminine. When she's trying to look her best to impress me, she will sit with perfect posture and her tail curled demurely around her fore paws, as proper as a sixteen-year old debutante. She is the only creature who has lived with me 24/7 for over 20 years, and we've been exclusive roommates now for over two and one-half years.
We know each other now. I understand her cat language; she understands my person language. We have our routines, whisker-alarms at day break, soft plaintive meows when she is appealing to me for food. She understands "Where my kitty?" and eagerly greets me at the kitchen window and front door. We have our games, like "I'm gonna get that kitty" as I hide behind the wall separating the kitchen from the living room and then spring out on her. She goes into spasms of excitement. She understands the game and play-fights back, but knows that she can't bite my hand too hard. I let her nibble and gently claw at my hand.
She knows not to use me as a scratching post when I'm wearing my linen pants. Jeans, no problem. She can nest on my chest except when I'm wearing an Uniqlo tee-shirt, it's too thin.
She has her games. When I'm standing at the toilet with my arms against the wall I'm her step ladder. She jumps up onto the toilet tank, springs up onto my left shoulder and then up onto the shower stall top railing. She used to jump back onto my shoulders when she was ready and I was finished. Now she plays forlorn-cat-stuck-in-a-tree and pretends she's scared and can't get down. She then moves to the furthest place on the shower top from where I am so that I have to strain to squeeze between the toilet to reach up to grab her. Meanwhile, she backs away from me in faux fright and I have to stretch to my right to get a gentle grip on her belly and bring her down...to my shoulders, where she then alights, afraid no longer, having gotten me to indulge her, and onto the floor.
I am totally pussy-cat whipped.
I am totally in love with "E-lev-en"..."E-lev-en."