Reflections in Fur

     You know how you can interpret dreams and find insights into your life by discerning symbols?  Well these days I'm interpreting cats.  My present circumstance is just waaaaaay too bizarre to  think of it any other way.

Buckminster as bathroom doorstop

     Buckminster is my main cat.  We adopted each other two years ago.  He's huge, intrepid, defiant, and goofy.  He falls asleep in his water bowl like a drunkard in his cups.  He sprawls out in the most inconvenient places.  He reflects the part of me that is comfortable and well cared for.  The part of me that is brave, imagines wonderful and sometimes confrontational scenarios for myself.  I know it all.  I believe in myself.  I can get a little stupid.
     Kierkegaard is a delicate, tiger gray feral cat who is a mass of anxieties.  I can't get more than three feet near him before he bolts.  But he will take food on the porch, and if I'm patient, I can coax him into the house.  As can Buckminster.  One day I came home from shopping to find the two of them in a Mexican standoff on the outer rim of the upstairs porch.  Clearly Bucky had taught him how to navigate the cat door, climb up the stairs, and squeeze between the balusters.  Kierke reflects the part of me that is scared, insecure, afraid to get too involved for fear of losing independence, yet in need of a mentor and helpmate despite my reluctance.
     Larry is my homeless cat, a petite, orange polydactyl.  Larry is besotted with me.  He follows me around the neighborhood on my walks.  But he requires mucho medical attention, and the budget will not allow for that at the moment.  So I keep him well fed and sheltered on the porch so that he doesn't share any potential diseases with us.  But Larry hates Bucky.  And the two of them have gotten into it pretty viciously.  It is astounding to see my twenty pounder cower in front of this bantam weight.  Larry knows about the cat door, and while he can't use it, he knows Bucky does, and will stand sentinel to see he doesn't get in or out without a fight.  Larry reflects external reality.  It dogs me with a leaking roof, skyrocketing medical premiums, replacement tires, and faulty feet.  It won't let me escape into comfort or confidence, real or imagined.  I must keep attending to it despite my desire to keep it at bay.
     Right now I'm a little annoyed with all of them.  I care for them and their conflicting needs so much that I am neglecting my writing and everything else I want to devote myself to.  So here's my plan for the week.  Minimal involvement.  They're cats.  They're smart.  They'll have to do without me a bit more because I am going to be more self-centered and take care of myself.  I have to, because they sure can't.  Let's see what happens when I change the dynamics.    
     And pray that I don't fall victim to feline mind control!

Pax tecum.