A bit of summer reading for you. House sitting for my cousin, 3500 miles from home, I am unable to upload pictures. A good writer doesn't need to rely on illustrations, I've been told. That is precisely why I've chosen blogging as my writing medium. More expressive than social networking without the requirement of talent. Throw in a couple of pictures and voila! Point made.
Uh-oh, no pictures available, you will have to rely upon my writing plus your imagination to complete the story. When I get back home I'll post the photos and you can see how close we were. What fun, she thinks nervously. Here goes:
My practical nature does not permit me the conjuring up of things frivolous, the perfect car, ideal vacation spot or an ever current wardrobe. But if it did, this would be the house of my dreams. Circular driveway, two and a half stories of floor to ceiling windows, panoramic outside orientation, groomed garden, mini orchard, deciduous woods (oh how I miss the deciduous woods of my childhood), peek-a-boo water view, a little beach a seven minute walk away. Primary coloured birds straight out of Disney, bright blue, yellow and red, feasting from feeders on the deck. They warble in Disney voices "Cheer-up cheer-up cheer-up, sing-a-song sing-a-song sing-a-song, tweet tweet." If I want, there are Broadway and movie soundtracks playing 24/7 on channel 426 out of 500, emanating from the magic box attached to the 52" TV.
The neighbourhood appears a tad this side of Stepford without the wives, or else they were programmed to go to work. On my daily fifty minute walk I've seen only three people, all on riding mowers, plus one dog. I imagine the neighbours in their air conditioned comfort, peering from behind the curtains at the crazy Canadian cousin attempting to exceed her daily requirement of 10,000 steps.
This particular dream house contains two cats, not generally my dream pet, but each day brings us closer. Mango, is an old feral cat, abandoned on the streets of Puerto Rico at the age of seven days, hand nursed to maturity by the only person in the world he trusts, my cousin. He's skinny, striped and has held me hostage in the bedroom, sitting in the doorway baring his teeth and reaching out to scratch my passing shin. Still I speak lovingly to this cat as my cousin would. I use his first language to the best of my abilities translated to "Ay, Mangocito, you are the only cat in my life." I don't care what the other one thinks, she loves me no matter what, especially when I'm eating tuna.
She is Emmy, fat and mostly black. She looks as if she was held around the chest, under her front legs, and dipped into white paint. Back legs all the way in, belly and front paws bleached by a shallow dunk. Emmy is content to graze all day and makes regular requests of me for affection.
It is humid here with a capital H. It's as though I'm walking through a fog of heat, breathing under water, parting seas of dragon flies with my cat scratched legs. I feel it like steam in a pressure cooker with a plugged vent. Something's got to give and I have a feeling it's going to be messy.
This morning I woke to rain. Breakfast time and not a cat to be found. That should have been my first clue. Outside I hear whipping winds followed by the stillness of dead silence. Then the deluge. Thunder, lightning, humidity erupting around us. "Here kitties, kitties, don't be afraid." 10:00 am, darker than night, we lost the power. Two cats and me in the living room, me with my camera in hand in case of funnel clouds. Too dark to knit. I hear gentle thuds in the bedroom, water dripping twenty feet above through the track lighting, onto the floor. I changed the sound to plinks with a strategically placed soup pot.
Looking out the bathroom window, a surprise. Cousin's lot had suddenly become waterfront. And the garage was a rapidly filling indoor swimming pool. I worry about the cats' inability to access their litter boxes and little door to freedom. At that point the electricity decides to come back on and I fear fried felines.
With the aid of a portable phone, I'm given instructions on how to deal with the rising tide. In case of electrocution I say a perfect Act of Contrition and call my husband. "Wait," he says, "don't go into the water. Take pictures first for their insurance claim." Ah, such a romantic.
Hammer, screw driver and broomstick in hand, wading into a foot and a half of rainwater, I unplug the driveway drain, the source of the drama. With further guidance from the cousin-in-law, and deep breaths, I lit the garage propane heater, blasting it on high for the entire day. I wish you could have heard the conversation between the two of us, both in panic mode. He instructs me to look for the wall heater to the left of the door. I go through the door, turn around and search the wall immediately to the left of the doorway. He meant go through the doorway and look at the wall on the left side of the garage. A comedy of errors. The visual was even funnier, me wearing rubber soled shoes just in case.
This is getting long. Maybe I should have broken it up into two posts.
I come back into the house, two cats awaiting my return. "Oh sweet kitties, let's celebrate with some treats." I hold out my hand to Emmy. She gobbles them up. Mango's turn. "Here Mangocito, have some Whiskas Temptations, sweet boy." Hisssss, he says, teeth bared as he bats my hand away. For God's sake, Mango, we've survived a natural disaster together. My best cat parenting and social worker skills have failed.
"Li," says my husband, back home over the phone, in his voice of reality, "it's a cat. That's how they are."
Life's a Stitch 
