Okay, so I know the big news today is our brand new shiny president. It is, indeed, fancy and historic and gosh, just downright refreshing to have a bonafide smarty pants in the White House (it's been a while...), but my own news is just as exciting, at least for me.
Today was the first day Ratty Catty let me pet him outside.
This is big, people, especially considering I thought he'd still be mad about the forced belly session we had this afternoon. (I trapped his trusting little napping self in the office. That'll teach him to be all cute while snuggling Monkey...)
Believe it or not, I think we began to turn this most recent corner last week after Ratty and I survived a horrible incident. I had just happened to catch him (more by accident and instinct than anything else) and thought, heck, let's try a lap snuggle session. He's actually gotten pretty good at lap snuggles, when they are available. It's the holding while walking that seems to freak him out most. (This lesson, the walking, is most important because if I go anywhere other than Berkeley for school he will have to be walked through an airport metal detector...) And then there is the litter box lesson, but Erik made me abandon that experiment as it is too gross and too soon...
Anyway, much to my chagrin, I hadn't noticed that Ratty had already begun peeing shortly after I caught him. It's been a while since I scared the pee out of him, so this alone should have convinced me to call the whole thing off. But instead, when I did notice I figured, whatever, I'm already peed on, right? Only, the trouble is, he was still freaked out, so he started in with the bunny kicking. He won't bite me and he won't scratch me with his front claws, but man will he bunny kick. So once he got me bleeding pretty good (on my poor fleshy belly parts), I decided it was time to abandon the plan. He then launched out of my lap, peeing in mid air as he left.
Now in case you were wondering, you know you have become a crazy cat lady when you look down and see that 66% of your couch is peed on and all you are thinking is what interesting splash patterns the flying pee has left.
Anyway, I cleaned up and I fully expected to see very little of Ratty for a few days. Instead, he came up to me that very same evening (and the next one as well), offering me his head to pet while I sat in front of my computer (not blogging). A couple days later he met me on the landing by the cat nip garden, where the normal cats greet me. Of course, he didn't let me touch him but he was very distinctly there to see me. Shortly after he followed me into the laundry room. Laundry supervision is definitely not his thing. Then two days ago he followed me down the driveway to my car - again, completely unprecedented. And then, tonight, the highlight. A little timid head scratching in the driveway. I'm so happy.
Which is great, cuz, well, I could use some happy as I'm still anxiously waiting to hear from the Law School in the Bush and my tolerance for suspense is extremely low. Each day I waffle between optimism and disappointment, heavy on the disappointment. And this has not been so great for the wagon riding, if you know what I mean.
Mostly I just feel like a big dork because thanks to my obsession I can scarcely enjoy the acceptances I already have (oh, though I did get my first rejection, thank you, Stanford...) and I know that even being considered by Law School in the Bush is a big fat honor. And if and when I do get in, it's not like my life becomes a rose garden or anything. Then everything is super duper extra complicated because I'll have to choose between the place I already call home and the freezing cold far away place with more prestige and a higher price tag. It's just, I really really want to get in. And I know I have borderline numbers and they know I will come whenever they call me, and so I am forced to wait. I just so suck at waiting.
So though my presence on the wagon has been spotty lately (there is ice cream and soda in my fridge!), I believe I am off to the gym now, cuz I do find exercise is a great therapy. I must say, though, that it makes me strangely weepy, which is, I'm sure, part hormones, but I think it's mostly cuz all my fatty fatness is filled with sad thoughts of inadequacy. And so when I make those million little fat cells burst open they remind me of how they got there in the first place... I mean, seriously, a Tarzan cartoon nearly had me in tears the other day and don't even get me started on that awesome pilot who did not kill all his passengers in the Hudson...
Oh, and I do recognize it is mean and petty to have nicknamed my fellow gym members (you know, Heavy Cologne Guy and Super Sweaty Hairy Woman), so in the spirit of fairness, if I had to nickname myself, I would be either Red Faced Woman Who Needs to Brush Her Hair Better or maybe Red Faced Woman Who Really Shouldn't Wear That.
Anyway, I know I have all but abandoned my seal stories, but I had my first rescue of the new year this Sunday - a juvenile male otter, just 6 kgs, who, of course, died in transport like they all do. He sure was a cutie, though. It's gross, I know, but if I had been allowed to keep the pelts of all the otters I've "rescued" through the years, I'd have a pretty damn fine jacket or something. I think I'd make it into a pillow case actually. But then, of course, the cats would just pee on it and that would be depressing.
He knows. He always knows.
10 months ago