Sunday, December 19, 2010
Animals have no concept of privacy. I don't know why I'd expect anything different from dogs, whose idea of greeting is a nose up your bum, but somehow I thought cats, being more aloof, would be more polite. It's rained for three days now. Bess has been reluctant to go outside, but waited until three o'clock this morning and then couldn't wait any longer. Fortunately, it was a brief trip and she was back in so we could go back to sleep. Frank and Pearl are reduced to using the litter box in the bathroom. Frank will cross his legs, waiting until I have to use the room, and then dash in so we can go together. Oh goody. A closed door means I must be having a better time than they, and the cats will claw and Bessie will whine until I let them in. Living alone, leaving the door open means less distraction. Bess knows that as soon as I drop my drawers, she has a captive audience with nothing to do but give her back a good scratch. She will awake from a sound sleep to follow me in. I once had a Welsh Corgi who would leap on my lap in the bathroom, throw back her head, and sing. She seemed to like the acoustics. I learned while watching the rescue workers during the aftermath of Nine-Eleven never to close the lid on the toilet. If something disastrous should happen, the inside animals would at least have a supply of water. Bessie Anne does not drink from the porcelain fountain. Frank does. It's a bit unnerving to almost sit on a cat if I'm not paying attention. A prior cat, Victor, had an utter fascination with toilets. Watching the swirling water during a flush was better than television. We had side-by-side bathrooms, and the highlight of Victor's life was when he'd get a double-header, running back and forth to watch both toilets flush. I had to warn guests to make sure the door was locked behind them. There were French handles and Victor learned how to open the doors, not wanting to be left out. For women, he would rest his paws on their thighs, trying to see; he would stand behind men, in danger of being sprayed. Alone and bored, Victor would just go play in the potty, splashing around and soaking his big, furry paws. If he jumped on your lap in the living room with wet feet, you knew what he'd been doing. We always flushed the toilets. Even Louie, the pig, would get into the act. We had a big, step-in shower, and he would come in and snuffle around, squeaking his nose across the glass doors until I let him into the shower with me. Now that's an experience. When the Kids were little, I used to dream of having time to myself in the bathroom. So much for that.