College boy Reeve

It’s wonderful to see him, or, more accurately, to hug him. In this day and age of Skype and email and Facebook and cell phones, we’re usually in pretty close touch. But electronic communication, though immediate, and definitely a good thing, is no substitute for everyday interaction, lovely moments of low-key hangout time, and the very real physical presence of our child.

So why do they call it being in touch? . . .

Since Reeve’s room has been converted into the nursery (When mama cat Twombly, gave birth under his bed—a convenient choice, since, other than the bathroom, Reeve’s room is the only one in the house with a door—we sealed the room off to keep the other feline residents out until the kittens are bigger.), Reeve is sleeping on the fold-out futon couch in the main room where Tim and I sleep, on another fold-out futon couch. (There’s just 10 feet and a book case between the two couches, so it occurs to me this is kind of like a grownup variation on cosleeping.)

Anyway, this morning, I awoke to hear Brutus (our 2-year-old tabby), meowing adamantly / persistenly, and Reeve mumbling, “Brutus. No.” and “Don’t poke me!” and then, “What is it, boy? What’s that? . . . Someone’s stuck in a well!? . . .”

You can’t get that on Facebook.

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Top photo: the spare bed/couch/futon in our front room.

Above: Can’t believe I have now actually referenced Lassie twice in this blog . . .

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Soon after, there’s a movement near my left arm, and it’s Twombly,* our 5-month-old kitten;  never very far behind Brutus, his perpetual sidekick.

Twombly settles in on my upper arm, purring more loudly than Brutus, leaning toward him, resting his kitten head on the bigger cat’s flank. Then the ritual begins. Brutus stretches out a front leg—reaching with his paw, claws retracted—and softly pats me on the chin. Twombly squirms up my arm to get a little closer, then reaches out his paw, claws in, and pats me on the chin, as well, his rhythmic purrs so loud I think he’ll wake Tim.

I thrill to this. Not because it’s a unique occurrence (happens almost nightly) but because not so long ago both of these cats were feral kittens who showed up at our back door, tiny and trembling and in search of food—lured, we figured, by the smell of our other cats. Each was terrified of us, would start at the slightest movement and dart away, through the cat door and back into the seeming safety of the outdoor world.

It’s hard to remember now, but shortly after Brutus first showed up, I awoke in the early hours and saw that he was sleeping with our cats on the daybed where they congregate (a.k.a. “the kitty divan”). As I crept over to get a better look, Brutus awoke, saw me, and leapt to the floor, heading  for the door. I bent down and (not really thinking) scooped him up, wanting to reassure him, I guess. Well, 14 puncture wounds and a couple of days later, I was at the urgent care clinic with swollen purple fingers, getting shots. (Afterwards, I found online a site where an expert likened handling a feral kitten to wrestling with an animated cactus. Believe it.)

That was two years ago; Brutus is now a beloved part of our household, the most affectionate of all the cats we’ve had. And now Twombly appears to be following suit, still a little skittish when we humans are vertical, but coming along nicely, thanks to Brutus.

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*Named for Cy.

Photos were shot on my cell phone early this morning, once I managed to extricate an arm.