| I'm Having Kittens |
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It's three in the morning, and I'm on the graveyard shift. That is not exactly the best place to be tonight, because my Queen, Chi-Chi, is bound to be upset when I come home. She is due to have another litter in the morning, and she has made it perfectly clear in the past that she does not appreciate being left alone for the last few days. For one, she is so heavy that she can't hardly walk (I swear, she always looks like she'll have a dozen), and remembering her waddling about is all it takes to make me feel homesick. And for two, she now demands to be fed much more often then twice a day. Having to wait 10 hours is not going to improve her disposition.
She usually lays on the floor all the time now (YOU try to jump up on a couch with your own bodyweight doubled and wobbling about), and since it is impossible to get comfy in a position somewhat resembling grace, one lays on one's back, with the offensive tummy displayed for all to see and comfort one. She is a sweet mommy though. She's been softly purring to herself for the last few days, and pointedly sat in the bathroom and stared at the -then still empty- corner where I usually make her bed for delivery, until I got the message. But other then rather wanting to keep her company, I know it is not time yet. How, you ask, can I be sure? Because I have learned that cats can be just as versed in the arts of magick then any of us. Last time, when I HAD to be away just that weekend, my little cat perfected her own abilities to 'call' me. I was on the way back from a trip out of country, five hours away from home, when I first 'heard' her. It was an intense sensation of 'feeling' my cat holler, mind you, not how one would imagine that is possible, but from the inside of my head, going outwards. You know, that kind of 'get a move on' miouw that beats nails on the chalkboard hands, err, paws down. I have always wondered how it is possible to hear transmissions without vocal cords involved, and that incident had answered all my questions in that department for good. My ears still ring just thinking about it. Now, I'm not particularly unbelieving about feline accomplishments, what with having a Siamese as a familiar, but this surprised me nevertheless. Telepathy with a kitty cat? Unheard of, even for me. So I quietly listened into myself, and the yowl came again, this time so loud, it made all my hair stand on ends. I immediately went to answer, and since I have not yet mastered the silence transmission, I talked to her with my mouth. Fellow travelers waking up looked around to find out what was going on (hey, my friends think I'm somewhat on the weird side anyhow, so it's not as if they are not used to seeing me do things to write home and tell your family about, but this must have been funny even for them). Here I am, telling my baby to hold on to her britches, "I know baby, I hear you, I'm coming.... hold on, I'm on the WAY". The driver got sniped at and instructed 'to step on it'. For the remaining hours flying down the interstate, I faithfully answered every call, and by the end of the trip I was sweating myself. How the little beastie managed to transfer her labor pains is beyond me, but believe me, transfer them she did (that'll teach me). She had me racing up the stairs at two in the morning, and sit down on the bathroom floor with coat and boots still on, just so she could heave a giant sigh, climb into my lab, and break her water. The first kit was born not 10 minutes later. After that, she graciously removed her claws from where she had them buried into my hands (just in case) and allowed me to get out of my travel clothes, and put on something comfy (can't you hurry up for crying out loud? Uh-oh, here comes another one), and put down another blanket for ME. I fell asleep spreadeagled and dead to the world on the bathroom floor, while my right hand was pulled into the delivery box, in firm grips of two soft little paws. I was there, that was enough. I awoke with every muscle complaining, to the soft light of a new day, and five brandnew bundles of perfection. As I slowly and tiredly changed the towels and made their bed anew, I vowed never to leave town around a due-date again, and to heck with prior reservations. I looked back over my shoulder when I left the nursery to crawl into my own bed, and the little devil cocked her pretty head at me and winked, fully aware that besides bringing bliss to five more families, she had accomplished teaching another necessary lesson to her human. © Sorceress SummerWind, February 1999 |
