Inundated

I'm inundated with stuff. It's amazing. What was previously a roomy, quiet apartment is now peacekeeping zone. The detritus of my offsprings' explosive entry after summer break is breathtaking, and I'm knee deep.

~

Pitter patting paws on my cat. She lights on my knee and blerts her mild disapproval of my shorts. She knows that clawing my leg instead of jeans will make the house noisy. I tell her it's too hot and boot her off. A few seconds later I feel her brush the back of my calf. I sneak a glance. She catches my eye anyway and bites my toe, just for kicks.

Nice.

Such are the pleasures of being supervised by felines. The true mystery of it all is that I named my daughter something that contracts down to Cat. And she's growing tall. I have the feeling she's going to be taller than me. That's not exactly a difficult feat, but I dread the look of tigerish disdain from both below and above.

It's already begun, of sorts. Consider our morning routine. The alarm goes off and I take a shower. Cat and cat both ignore the noise, being selectively deaf to things not personally desirable. I stand in the wet. This is the most peaceful time of the day, to be prolonged whenever possible. For the moment the water turns off, a small black shadow flits on the other side of the shower doors. She has not noticed her state of inkiness against the creamy floor. When I slide things open and step out for my towel, she slips slyly behind and bides her time. Once the towel wraps and there are no drips, she attacks!

With her tongue, that is. That's right. Just out of the bath, the first feeling of the day is wet sandpaper on the skin of my legs. Rubbing the creepiness away, I scuttle into the Cat lair. It's a tactical error. I step on a hair accessory that feels like lego. I trip over a teddy bear clone. I stumble to the bed, only to find my daughter bolted in the confusion.

She's in the bathroom. Locked in with my glasses, my clothes, and my peaceful moment. The cat's yellow eyes gleam down the hall. I'd better make a run for it or I'll be licked again.

Dressed for school, I can nervously tell that she'll pass me this year. This in between teen stage is the hardest. Lithe and lionish, she prowls about looking for her books. Her jeans are cutting edge; her hair's been snorted on by a rhino. But she still has that insouciant felinity when she turns and commands that meat be prepared for supper. She slinks out the door and the cat ambushes my hose.

I depart for work beating off the outraged shedder of fur. Or I would, if I didn't stand on the cusp of my porch. To them I am caught between. Then I look up and look down, meeting slitted eyes with the thought that they choose to stay.