Thursday, December 16, 2010
Over the years I've had cats and kittens that have been more or less obsessed with water. Not that any really have enjoyed taking a bath - the one cat that once upon a time made me broke my arm was actually one of the nicer ones in the shower - but many have loved the dripping of the tap. The drip drop cats.
One of the most endearing sights was the one where my first British Shorthair (blue boy Oscar) showed his tiny grandchildren exactly how much fun you can have with a dripping tap at the kitchen sink. He jumped up on the kitchen sofa, strategically situated beside the kitchen counter within jump-reach for a cat, big or small. 'Then pitter-patter along the counter until you reach the sink. If it's not dripping we can wait until someone sees us sitting here waiting.' One big blue grandpa' followed by four tiny kittens in a row. All mesmerized by the delight and prospect of a dripping tap.
These days there are only a few tap cats in my house. Namely father and son, Pelle and Waldemar (and sometimes the liquorice cousin Viola). Like with the bread basket. Very entertaining. As well as somewhat annoying. I don't like my taps to drip. When they don't I get the most reproachful of looks from Pelle. The one that's ALWAYS around when there's a tap nearby and he isn't fast asleep. 'Hey, this won't do!'
Then he can sit there in or by the sink and play with the water, drinking, splashing, letting it drizzle all over his head. And I'll let him. For a while. Because he should have some fun and because it makes me happy to see the silliness of it kitty all. They're such lovable goofy pranksters, the cats.
And then they were two. Like father, like son. The waterboys. The pranksters. The clever cats I'm sharing my life with. The ones that light my life from the gloom, that now and then shows its ugly, nasty head. The lovable purrballs.