My cleaner, in faltering English: “My husband, he say ‘Jessie, she so pretty! She have baby?’ and I say ‘No, no baby!'”
Moi: “I have Omar!”
boy man of the house. Late last year, right in the middle of trying to conceive where making decisions beyond “Should I self inject this hormone cocktail before or after the shower?” were probably ill advised, I decided to get a cat. Fill the baby void with a cat. This was not necessarily my logic, but the not-so-subtle “I don’t think that’s a very good idea” commentary I received suggested that others thought it was. Or maybe they were just thinking about toxoplasmosis. Whatevs. It was not the time to be denying me of my needs and I needed a cat. Stat.
The thing is, I am allergic to cats. I had a cat for six years in my late teens/early 20’s, and while it was devastating when he was killed early one morning by a car in our 6th year of being pals, my health sure did improve after his passing. So getting any old cat wasn’t an option. Last year, I was made aware of the Siberian breed that are supposed to be hypoallergenic AND have long hair. Apparently the allergen is in the saliva, not the hair – who knew?! However, after some research, I discovered there was only one breeder in Victoria and the chances of getting an older cat was minimal. I wanted an older cat. Kittens are just… too much. Ideally, I wanted to rescue an adult cat from a shelter.
Fast forward a few months and somehow I have ended up with an overpriced, purebred Devon Rex kitten. I picked him up around 6 weeks ago and I often wonder whether I did get the baby I trying for after all. He spends most of our time together wanting to be ON me. He tries to destroy my hands or the item I am holding in them if they are diverting me from LOVING him wholly. I am currently trying out various soft toys to see if I can successfully transfer his need to suckle on my neck. He’s named after Omar from The Wire. He’s going to have to work a little harder to be mistaken for a stick-up boy.
He does regular kitten things, like finding his tail a great source of amusement and he somehow manages to leap off his hind legs through the air and land on all four at once, as if he’s actually propelled himself from a higher platform. That trick makes me laugh the most.
He has short hair, sensitive skin and a frown. I can’t eat porridge in peace anymore and I have had to go outside more than once to have a little ‘me’ time. When I arrive home, I scoop him up and we give Eskimo kisses. At night, he sleeps on my legs, then by my side and he’s usually on my pillow by morning. When he’s ready to start the day, which is always at an ungodly hour, he stands on my head and/or jumps on my chest.
He is my best 2kgs.