It's a Dark and Stormy AngelBoy Night

It has been raining off and on all day long. Mostly on. Mostly pouring. Now we're getting thunder and lightning. When the thunder started, I got out of bed to let Rusty and AngelBoy into the house. They both sleep on the screen-porch at night, but AngelBoy is afraid of thunder.

When I opened the breakfast room door, AngelBoy literally jumped over Rusty to get into the house first. Which was easy for him to do, since Rusty walks so slowly. I put AngelBoy and Rusty in the laundry room, figuring they could sleep there for tonight. No sooner did I get back into bed and what do I hear? More thunder... then AngelBoy started to pound his paws on the laundry room door. Loud enough for me to hear the door rattling all the way across the house.

I got out of bed again so the noise wouldn't wake my husband. Rusty is now back out on the screen-porch, since he didn't like being in the laundry room anyway. AngelBoy is right by my feet as I type. He's on his back, four feet up in the air, and every once in a while he looks at me to make sure I'm still here.

Needless to say, AngelBoy is a high-maintenance cat. I can't keep him in the house all night long because I never know if he'll have one of his little "accidents" on the carpeting. Which can happen if he gets scared, or if ShadowBaby has used one of the blue litter boxes. Heaven forbid one of the other cats uses AngelBoy's blue litter box instead of their own beige ones. This cat knows the color blue, and those are the only ones he will use. But he is so prissy that if he goes to use a litter box and it has already been soiled, he just doesn't walk to another litter box, he walks to a corner and has "an accident."

AngelBoy hasn't had an accident in the house in nearly a year now. For the simple reason that I don't keep him in the house if I'm either not here or not awake. Which is why he spends a good deal of time on the screen-porch. I'm sure my carpet-cleaning service misses the days when AngelBoy was having an accident every other week.

We have three cats, and seven litter boxes. One in each bathroom, two in the laundry room, and three out on the screen-porch. I keep them clean, clean, clean. No sooner does a cat use one and there I am, taking out the soiled litter. The strangest part of this is that AngelBoy hasn't ever had his "accidents" on the screen-porch. Just in the house. And only on the carpet.

And why do I put up with this cat? Why haven't I just put his little cat-butt out into the yard and told him to spend the rest of his life as a backyard cat? Because I'm a softy. I just can't do it. AngelBoy looks at me with those deep blue eyes of his and I melt. (Or, as my husband says-- I cave.)

AngelBoy is really a sweet cat. He doesn't like to be picked up, but he likes to be close. He will sit at my feet and put his head on my toes or wrap his paw around my ankle. He loves Gracie to pieces and has since Gracie was a puppy. He cuddles up next to Gracie and rubs his head underneath that dog's chin. He loves Rusty and will cuddle up close to Rusty and go to sleep. He plays with ShadowBaby's tail but ShadowBaby will only take that for so long. Then he turns around and chases AngelBoy into a corner. AngelBoy is a one-person cat, and I'm that person. He barely tolerates my husband, and will only occasionally rub up against his leg. And he doesn't take too kindly to strangers.

For as long as we've had AngelBoy (since 1997) I've shared my breakfast with him. He loves the raisins in my breakfast cereal, his favorite flavor of yogurt is black cherry, and he loves any kind of fresh fruit as long as it's not ice-cold from the fridge. And I can't read the paper when he's sharing my breakfast. I guess he thinks that's very rude, because he'll just sit himself down right on top of the paper till breakfast is over.

I will re-read all of the above when I proof-read this and tell myself that I am totally crazy for putting up with such a picky, prissy cat. But nothing will change. There have been days when I decide to be less tolerant with AngelBoy. And he picks up on that in a heartbeat. He goes into the little basket where I keep the cat-toys and he gets his little red and white checked ribbon that he's been playing with since he was a baby. The first Christmas we had AngelBoy, I had those red/white bows on the tip of each branch of our Christmas tree. AngelBoy took one from the bottom branch and batted it from one end of the house to the other. He just played with the one and didn't bother the rest on the tree, so I let him keep it.

He's still playing with the same ribbon for all these years. And when AngelBoy thinks that I need a little reminder that he really is a sweet cat after all, he will get that ribbon, carry it in his mouth and meow his way around the house till he finds me. And there he will be, sitting in front of me with a red and white-checked smile. Then he drops the bow at my feet and curls up next to my ankle.... and I tell him that he's my very favorite blue-eyed boy-cat. I've been telling him that same phrase for seven years and I swear he knows just what I'm saying.

So here I sit, at 1:00 in the morning. It's still raining outside, but the thunder and lightning have stopped. AngelBoy is asleep by my feet. He's curled up as tightly as he can get himself and he looks like he should have a halo hovering above his silver-gray head. After I proof-read what I've written, I will have to pick up AngelBoy and bring him back out on the porch and lay him down in one of the wicker chairs. I know that when I do that, he will look at me with those kitty-blues of his and I will need nerves of steel to leave him on the porch instead of bringing him into the bedroom and letting him sleep on the bed.

But I can't do that. ShadowBaby is in the bed, sound asleep on my side, probably with his head on the pillow right about now, being that I got out of the bed nearly an hour ago. ShadowBaby does that-- he'll move to a warm part of the bed when he gets the chance.

Three cats. All three have their different personalities, habits, stories. My husband once asked my friend A this question: "If you could be any animal, what would you be?" Without missing a beat, A's answer was: "I would want to be one of Larrie's cats."