Cool cats, cold weather

I’ve been listening to Midwest weather hype and pondering relativity. What is news in that region seems par for the course in the wilds of Maine. We find ways to sanely winter over.

My cats are weathering the lingering blast of arctic air by crawling beneath the covers at night and co-mingling into amorphous balls of fur during the day. I watch them negotiate the cabin, never placing a paw on the cold floor. Small leap from loft ladder to cabinet to the L-bench, to the other cabinet, across the stove and down in the litter box. They squabble over the space beneath the woodstove or on the adjacent ladder, but mostly over my lap. Seven will softly reach out and touch my face with her paw while her sister, Sadie, circles anxiously. Old Chip is content to wait until all motion ceases. Then I am trapped in position as each cat assumes its desired spot. Feet, legs, lap.

Chip, who has been an outside cat, worries at the door each morning until I grudgingly let her out. Two leaps out the door. Pause. Her head swivels back toward the door, where I watch for the perplexed look that I know will cross her face. I am not sure if she’s forgotten why she went out, how she got there, or if she’s merely stunned by the cold. Our eyes meet and seconds later she is back inside. Some mornings we repeat this routine several times, in rapid succession. Those days I firmly count as senior moments.

The kittens are fascinated by these efforts. Hunched on steps of the ladder, they watch closely. Sometimes they leap to their seats as I step toward the door, so as not to miss a bit of the action. When they are convinced that Chip has completed her morning routine, they bound down the ladder and sniff the outside on her fur.

My cats are my constant comfort. Sitting in the window, watching as I leave home each morning. Sitting in the window, watching as I return home each night.