These are the pussycats of my neighbors. The little red one is named Finn. I can’t remember the name of the giant gray kitty, which is embarrassing. She adores me!

No, really! She loves me to pieces.

For the past week, I’ve been off work at the unnamed university, where offices are closed. I really needed a break from the confines of the office, where one of my co-workers is deeply depressed and has been for some time. I tried talking to her about depression and how it makes us feel helpless, angry and anti-social. Caught in the feedback loop that is believing something is wrong but nothing can be done about it, she actually argued with me that everything would go on as it had. The best I could do was introduce the topic into conversation, so when I had, I walked away. A minute or two later, the woman who sits next to my depressed co-worker gently put a xerox down on my desk: an article called Adversity Has Been a Familiar Force in My Life. Thus, we trap the depressed in the prison of our denial because their illness calls our health into question.

The family store has been another matter, as Anya and I sometimes rang up purchases and gift-wrapped, as fast as we could for hours on end leading up to Christmas. Since then, the store has been a little more normal. I’m getting ready to go there now. Topaz and Drusy are being very helpful. They’re napping in the other room, as opposed to untying my sneakers as fast as I tie them – unless they’re not sleeping. Pete suspects they’re building a rocketship behind the headboard. I keep saying nobody’s that neat, and I’d certainly be vacuuming up little tools.

The pussycats keeeesss!

The large gray cat used to be part of a matched set of large gray cats. They weren’t just large. They were LARGE. When you have two cats at a combined weight of about 50 pounds you have a reason to fear for your china. And the china cabinet. Fortunately, they were mild-mannered and never nabbed the car keys. Last winter, the other large gray cat took the dirt nap, and recently, Finn came to live with my neighbors, who dote on him endlessly. They described him as a kitten but if he’s a kitten I’ll eat my shoes. I’ll keep my wager to myself, though: Finn’s got it made, and I’m not the kind to let the cat out of the bag.

Topaz, you may recall, came to me with respiratory issues manifesting in the form of a weepy right eye. The vet promised me the condition bothered me more than it bothered Topaz so I let it go. As the temperature dropped, hatches were battened against the weather and the apartment felt snug, then stuffy. So did Topaz, who seemed to be constantly sneezing. On Wednesday, when I opened my bedroom door in the morning, the apartment felt like an oven and the sound of Topaz’s breathing was louder than the TV. I brought home a humidifier and set it up to run constantly. Minstrel advised what I pretty much guessed I should do, then the Chinese medicine consultant at the health food store agreed: eucalyptus drops in the humidifier. This morning, Topaz sneezed a bit but not much and was cranky enough to resist my efforts to wipe away a bit of snot. So: things are looking up. And speaking of looking up –

Topaz sits at Pete’s feet all the time and gazes up at him with all the sticky emotion one hopes to avoid in a torrid teenage love affair. Tuesday night, I was working on something and Pete said, “Get the camera.” Though Topaz usually sees the camera and takes a powder, this time Topaz sat still and blinked out her message of awkward, gooey love. Mostly, Pete ignores this peculiar source of unguarded affection, which reminds me that in high school he went out with the beautiful, shy blonde girl everyone stared at and sighed. I had forgotten he must have had awkward girls in pigeon-toed droves staring at him like this.

Yesterday was the longest day of my life, I think. I just have to get through today and then I’m off until 3 January; crucial, as I am running on fumes. Wednesday morning, I dragged a case of Joint Juice to my office, plus two packages to be mailed out, lunch and oranges for my co-workers. It was too much for me to carry, really, which I discovered during the quarter-mile trek from my car to the library. The wind was blowing in great gusts. I put up the hood of my coat and threw my messenger bag over my shoulder, which pushed hair in my eyes. I balanced the whole load and set off, pretty much blind. A minute later, I realized I was standing on a 30′ sheet of ice in 2″ heels, carrying more than I should. I wish I had this on video for you. You would enjoy it. I’ve recovered nicely!

Somehow, I got across the street before the case of Joint Juice shifted. Instead of plummeting to the ground it flew up in the air. I juggled it – juggled it – juggled it, then BLAM! It slammed to the sidewalk and one side burst open. I burst out laughing. A wide-eyed, almost hysterically earnest young woman appeared out of nowhere and helped me gather up the little cans. Still laughing, I said, “You have to admit: this is pretty funny.” She exclaimed, with deep feeling, “I have an exam. THANK YOU.” After she disappeared – whoosh! – back into nowhere, I toddled another fifty feet before I heard the shopping bag in my left hand tear. I put the bag down and marched into the library, where a man I know pretended not to be wetting his pants at my misfortune. He took the box of Joint Juice. I went back outside, gathered up disintegrating shopping bag and its contents. Then I went downstairs to tell everyone I was having a bad day with containers and should in no way make coffee. Fortunately, the office was out of bottled water.

Pete looks at Topaz and in his best Jan Brady voice says, “Drusy, Drusy, Drusy!” Pete claims Topaz has a Drusy doll stuck full of pins. As you can see, our long-legged princess doesn’t seem to care – not when there’s festive tissue paper to steal and destroy! Gift-giving holidays are a boon to the pussycats, who try to help with these chores. Tuesday night, Drusy stole and de-ribboned presents as fast as I wrapped them. I couldn’t get mad about it, though. She looked so happy, vanquishing the raffia. I almost didn’t have the heart to steal them back.

I have agreed to catsit for the people upstairs again. They bribed me with homemade pralines so good I wanted to slap them for the extra pounds on my butt. So next week: double your pleasure, double the cats.

It’s as if I caught them in a motel room.

Topaz is so ashamed! After I took this picture, Drusy sprawled across Topaz in a most possessive manner and Topaz closed her eyes. I surmise that after I left for work catnapping transpired, though I suspect there may also have occurred noshing, scampering and playing with toys. This is some life. I’m keeping them in the manner to which I’d like to become accustomed, and if it weren’t for the fishy canned food I wouldn’t nibble on a bet I’d feel truly outsmarted.

Topaz found my arrangement of Dad’s cookbooks to her liking and declared this spot the one where she lounges and stares at me. Sometimes, she sits and stares at me. This is less unnerving than when she sits and stares at something I can’t see, but more unnerving than when, as now, she appears to be stalking me. As you may guess, I’m pretty big prey. I could be delicious, but we don’t know for sure. Either way, I’m wily and uncertain I want to be caught.

In a previous life, I was a Biblical Revisionary artist. Thus, I can possess that image of Nastassia Kinski without apology. You, however, are on your own.

The other day, I turned my house upside down but couldn’t find Drusy. It’s a simple matter: sometimes I count cats to make certain my furry captives haven’t dug their way out. Darla counts ears and divides by two, but I’m just not brilliant at math so I count up one Topaz and one –

– one –

Hey, where’s one Drusy?

Then I panic a little. The first time it happened, I panicked a lot for about 45 minutes before calling Siobhan, who assured me the pussycats might like me but they love the free food. Because I hadn’t seen a cat curled up inside the catcurledup furniture thing I didn’t look there, though that’s where Drusy was the whole time. When I found her she looked at me the way dogs look at ceiling fans. Thus, whenever she’s invisible you’d think I’d make a beeline for the furniture whatsis. I do not. So the other day when I found her curled up and photogenic I was surprised and pleased: one Drusy. Ahh.

Yesterday, I stood up at my desk. Mathilde stood up. Beth stood up. Then we were doing the twist, because who cannot hear Dick Dale on the mental jukebox?

Drusy is a lanky five-pound pussycat who wants with her whole heart to fit into this basket I placed on the living room floor in anticipation of kitty curiosity, yet that cat – she does not fit! Her eyes glow with determination and lumpy adorability. This picture reminded me, though I was no fan, of stage whispered tabloid warnings that Princess Di should lay off the melba toast if she wanted to go strapless. Thus, I will acquire a larger basket for the slender pussycat and the feline version of bon bons.

Topaz is not a hat, but neither is she a python that has swallowed an elephant. Thus, there were always other possibilities for the Little Prince. Perhaps the pilot drew a shape and filled in the contents and not, as one might surmise, drawn contents from the inside out. In the case of lovely Topaz, we cannot know if she is full of an elephant but I would bet against it as I seldom hear loud trumpeting.

Pete took these pictures at my urging because only one of us at a time is allowed to be rendered speechless with glee – some sort of local ordinance – and it was my turn. This is a fine image of a cat rump. I would go so far as to say it is among the finest images of a cat rump I’ve ever seen, especially since the head distantly attached to this rump tried to burrow under the couch. Many have tried, kitty!

It was a rough day for imagery.

Tata: So how is the feline quartet?
Darla: Ah! The Gang of Fur! Samantha was sick so I took her to the vet. The last thing I need would be to kill off your father’s cat.
Tata: She’s okay?
Darla: Yeah, I enjoyed giving her antibiotics twice a day for a week.
Tata: She’s a sweet pussycat but I can see her trying to julienne you.
Darla: Last night, Edgar sat on my desk with foam running down his chin. I thought, ‘Terrific. He’s got rabies.’ I sniffed him and realized somewhere in the house lay an empty tube of toothpaste.
Tata: So, Gang of Fur: is it Madame Mao or I Love A Man In Uniform?

Darla: Do you know I’ve had four cats for ten years and you’re the first person to ask?

You’re just here for the cats. I know your secret.

Pourquoi? Pourquoi pas?

Ah, lovely Topaz! I adore her but she can be a bit of a pill. Her hobby (nudging things from atop other things, preferably at a good height and where disastrous collision with the earth generates an impressive crashy cacophony) sometimes interferes with ordinary apartment life. The other night, Topaz nudged Pete’s wallet from its perch atop the pictured festive footrest. What Pete failed to notice and I failed to mention the time was that a few leaves of his wallet photo holder fell out. The next day, Pete was in Home Depot buying paint and found his wallet a little light. He rushed home in a panic and scoured his house for the missing items, then found them on my living room floor. He knew immediately what had happened. Topaz remains mum on the subject.

Last night, we were treated to the kitty version of big time wrestling, which is no fun since it left stinky high school gyms and went all glam. Our feline friends nibbled on one another ears and flung themselves at one another and peculiar angles. We applauded harrowing holds and narrow escapes. We gasped at creative uses of teeth and feathered cat toys. The fully grown pussycats have a wide range of facial expressions and vocal intonations. We know when to pick up our feet and wait for the furry fighters to chase something shiiiiiny.

The spookiest of spooky Drusys. She is pouncy! She is relaxy! She weighs all of five pounds but she is five pounds of toe-nibbly, lip-locky, finicky feline. Pete had a cold last week. When he lay down on the couch, Drusy lay on his chest and kissed him over and over. I said, “Doesn’t that make you feel better?” He said, “Well, it doesn’t make you mad.“

Here we see the felis overjoyedicus at play on the four-foot ladder. Note that both cats attempt to assume the deceptively placid roaster position. This offers both stability and the opportunity to paw your sister’s head.

As you may have guessed, the humans belonging to these pussycats responded to this week’s cold weather by taking down the bronze organza summer curtains and hanging Grandma’s sturdy, draft-stopping drapes. The cats, covered with fur, tolerated these changes in their environment with great patience.

Crooked pictures in the background? Guess who!

The four-foot ladder has been with me a long time. It has helped me reach things for many years I would otherwise point at and whine, “Ehn ehn ehn!” I love this ladder. It lives in my kitchen because I am too petite to reach above the plate shelf, which raises an interesting question, I guess: people used to be a lot shorter than they are now. When these apartments were built after World War II, adults hadn’t grown up gnawing on beef at every meal as subsequent generations have. There are all kinds of charts and history out there somewhere about this. I looked for them but all I could find were charts about obesity screwing up our manhood, and since I’m not worried about mine, I gave up. Sometimes, when I’m standing in the kitchen with the eight-foot ceiling and cabinets that go all the way up, I wonder how the grandmas of the 1950s coped without stilts. It seems like a dirty trick to play on women especially, though I have no problem climbing on the counter to grab the powdered milk.

Here, Drusy is stalking me. Apparently, I am delicious prey she can nap next to, then chase for a diverting interlude. In the last week or so, Drusy has become enamored of my toes in a new and exciting way: she bats at them as if they might roll away. My toes do not roll, not like the myriad round cat toys littering the living room floor. Half a dozen times a day, I jump up and howl, “Dooo not bite Mama!” Promise, she will not. My toes are delicious! And she cannot resist their yummy allure.

The pussycats are fascinated by Pete’s every move, especially when he’s not making one. Topaz, my little bear cub, rushes to the door when she hears his bicycle outside, and throws herself against the door to keep him from leaving. In between, Topaz spends a good deal of time sitting at his feet, staring at him. It’s like a Sandra Dee movie without a beach. Drusy, meanwhile, discovered that cats enjoy cushiony reclining and that she is, in fact, a cat. So, we’re good there.

When I’m quiet, it’s because something tedious is happening. I’d hate to test your patience with whining, so consulting the Cliff Notes –

Before dawn Friday morning, I awoke, gasping for breath. The pain in my right leg was like a floodlight on my face. After a few years, I found a way to lie still such that the pain only felt like an annoying 100 watt bulb in the next room and I fell asleep. Friday morning, I could barely put weight on my right leg, so I hobbled to the living room and called out crooked, because sick wasn’t quite accurate. Later, I crawled to the chiropractor’s office, where a doctor I’d never met had just had a car wreck on her way to my appointment. I threw my hands up and shouted, “YAHTZEE!” because what else could I do?

Pete took these pictures sometime last weekend. Above, Drusy puts forth a paw and an opinion. We surmise the kittens are now 11 months old, which means they have probably grown to full size. Drusy is tall, lean and weighs nothing. At least twice a day, Drusy walks across my lap and flops on her left side, knowing I will catch and hold her like a baby as she falls asleep. At left, Topaz, who cannot bear to see things atop other things, regards Pete’s sunglasses and glasses case. Unless a human intervenes, Topaz will give the things atop other things three or four little shoves. Then the things will rest on the floor. Most of the time, the things do not break on impact.

On occasion, it is exhilarating to set up the pussycat obstacle course and let hilarity ensue. This is not one of those occasions.

Larry, the little black cat once bent on stealing your soul, made a kitty bugling noise that I came to recognize as his name for me. Perhaps it meant, “You there!” or “Woman!” or “Warm thing I sleep on!” but we’ll never know. He was fond of me most of the time but not above taking a swing at me in the name of behavior modification. Anyway, both kittens now make very similar kitty bugling noises when they can’t find me.

Many names translate from language to language somehow. I wonder where the kittens heard mine.

Behold, another Great Moment In Feline History captured in pixels for whatever posterity we fit in before lunchtime: Madame Topaz has vanquished her mortal enemy the squirt bottle and, as if that weren’t enough, denies all knowledge of the aforementioned vanquishing!

Tata: Topaz! My darling, you’ve knocked over the squirt gun!
Topaz: I don’t know what you’re talking about! Take it up with the dog.
Tata: We don’t have a dog.
Topaz: (sniff!) Whose fault is that?

Drusy’s new favorite lurkplace is under this footstool Pete brought over from his swinging bachelor pad because like most humans, Pete likes to relax with his feet up. The opposite appears to be true of kittens, who in this picture enjoy pleasant contact with all things floor-related. Topaz, in the foreground, may be considering my failings as a photographer. We both know that as soon as I put away the camera, Topaz will leap to the highest pussycat-attainable height in the living room: Pete’s bicycle seat. From this lofty vantage point, Topaz will fix on me her 110 volt stare and wait for me to burst into flames.

So far: no dice.

Topaz!

Madame is often underfoot, scolding me for some minor transgression. She chastises me for the condition of the apartment by finding woodscrews and batting them noisily across the floors. She pouts when I wash dishes if she cannot sit on the counter to observe. She refuses to ruffle her kitteny dignity by asking to be scritched; she will however accept modest caresses if we happen to be alone in the kitchen, and the other cat’s otherwise occupied. Maybe.

Pete and I were in Sears when I heard the siren song of red shoes. I picked out a pair, fully expecting to suck it up and pay full price. If you look at the box, there’s a sticker on it I did not see. The red shoes were reduced from $39 to about $15, and there was an additional 50% off. When the cashier said, “That’s $7.49,” I thought I heard wrong, but no! $7.49 for a pair of red Land’s End suede shoes! I called Daria and the next day, we went and bought her a pair. Then Daria went back and bought the babysitter a pair, and Mom, and Daria’s best friend. I told my co-workers. One went yesterday and bought four pair. Last night, I informed Anya and Corinne that there were $7.49 red suede shoes. Note the tiny paw of the happy kitten as she sits in the tiny charming shoe box.

Topaz rejoices!