Pulling the tail of the beast

Softly, quietly: ‘Mrow?’ So quiet that I can barely hear it.

I look up. I talk to Edmund a lot, mostly because he acts interested when I do, and often chirrups back at me. Our ‘conversations’ are short, and usually have to do with whatever action I’m doing at the time.

“I know you don’t like it, Edmund. But it only takes a few minutes.”‘Mrowwwwwwwwww.’ A little louder this time, more of a complaint. But his eyes don’t show fear, and his tail is swishing absently. He’s not pleased, but he’s not scared. He grows still when I switch on the vacuum and begin to push it around the living room, and his eyes follow every movement.

To him, I suppose the vacuum must seem a raging, snorting beast that I fight by pulling on its tail. He doesn’t understand the concept of crud in the carpet—after all, this is the cat that tracks litter into every carpeted room in the house. He must think this task a truly dreadful one.

Tenzing, always the more curious one, will actually approach the vacuum and sniff it, staring with a wary but intrigued expression on his face. He has been trying to make friends with the vacuum cleaner for about a year now. When the vacuum begins to roar, he generally backs off a few steps, but does not run in fear like Edmund did when they were kittens.

For now, Edmund settles for sitting on the divider between the foyer and the living room. He’s far too nosy to let his fear of the vacuum cleaner get the best of him. He’s going to watch every move it makes, but he’s going to make very sure his ever-so-precious tail and paws get nowhere near the mouth of the roaring beast.

Sometimes I think he knows when I’m writing about him. He just bounded up and plopped onto ‘his’ shelf on my desk with a happy cat-chirp and purr. I scratched his back, and then picked him up. He kneaded my shoulder for a moment, then gave me his favorite endearment: he licked my nose.

Nothing like cat-food-breath. Yum.

I think it’s my reward for putting the vacuum away.

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