Since I strained my back badly on the elliptical
yesterday trying to be all ambitious and healthy, and as a consequence spent
most of the night lying stiffly in one position across a hot water bottle, I’ve
decided that today I deserve to sit around and do nothing but dabble in that
which makes me happy. Here’s a list:
1. Finishing my owl rug!
Which leads to happy-making thing number one and a half—anticipating
an afternoon trip to Joanne’s, since I need material for edging it.
2. Learning how to make a Cross of St. Brigid,
whose shrine I visited when I was in Ireland last year:
3. These two Irish music videos:
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That’s probably enough benign joy for one day. One
mustn’t overdo it.
After enduring Buddy howl and launch himself
against the sliding glass door repeatedly last night in attempt to get me to
let him onto the deck, I think I finally figured out what’s wrong with him: He
doesn’t have any sense of emotional self-regulation when it comes it comes to
his wants and needs. Everything is a five-alarm fire with that cat. If he wants
to go out on the deck, it’s not merely a passing, wistful desire, it’s a
frenzied, all-encompassing urge that must be met with as much immediacy as
possible. If he’s a little bit peckish, he doesn’t just whimper slightly and
stare at his food dish, he shrieks like a banshee and parades around the
kitchen pantomiming death throes (then takes two modest bites of the kibble I put
down and stalks off.) If he’s bored and wants to play Feather, it’s a national
emergency that involves increasingly shrill meowls until, to save our hearing
and sanity, he inevitably gets his way. I don’t know if this is nature or
nurture, but I’m trying to figure out if we did something to cultivate this sense
of the dramatic in him. He was a bit of a mess when we first got him—he had
food issues and bad separation anxiety—but we tried our best to make sure that
we responded to his cues and that he felt safe and loved. Yet he still seems to
feel that an epic fit is a prerequisite for getting even his mildest whim met.
I love and accept him for who he is, but I must admit I enjoy him the most when
he’s finally worn himself out with his own histrionics and collapses on the couch, all warm and soft and sleepy and vulnerable.
--Kristen
McHenry
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