HopelesslyJoan

I have a beautiful bedroom complete with ensuite that I have spent two years making just perfectly “mine” after my partner moved out.

It took awhile to adjust to the expanse of lonely bed, but when I realized it was all my call, I painted the walls in soft colours of blues and greys and then I accented with pale pinks. I bought a floral duvet covered with beautifully scattered spring flowers.I also left the bedroom door open so that the cat could visit when the mood struck.

It is now officially “girly” and I have no one to make me feel guilty about it. There is a stuffy on the bed (white teddy complete with red ribbon) and perfume bottles, candles, bras and scarves on most surfaces.

Mine, mine, mine!

Well… mine and Innka’s. Innka is my 18-year-old cat. At that age, he’s the equivalent of a one hundred year old human gent. A recent $300 trip to the vet confirmed that he is very healthy, all organs just hunkey dorey.

He does have a few medical problems which we have learned to manage, through modern medicine and the miracle of VISA. He is a mostly blind, toothless diabetic with a thyroid condition that causes him to howl for no apparent reason. He is a black domestic shorthair, but I think there must be Siamese lurking (ever heard THEM complain?) in his genealogy.

When Innka lets go with one of his louder musings, it sounds very much like the demons of Hell are nipping at his heels. He usually saves this blood-curdling yowling until the lights go out, and I am comfy in the arms of Morpheus. Maybe he’s scared of the dark but doesn’t remember until I start snoring. Based on that assumption, I moved his food and water dishes into the bedroom, hoping to create a comfortable environment for him.

Soon afterwards, I moved the kitty litter pan into the ensuite, too. It just made sense…after filling up on a $70 bag of Diabetic Kibble all night long, he would need a nearby place to relieve himself. The bathroom adjoins the bedroom, just steps away from the food dish and my (our) bed.

That long walk through the darkened, sleeping house and out through the kitty door to the garage - it just seemed to be asking a great deal from an old, confused and frightened cat. No wonder he often howled blue murder when he ventured out the bedroom door and into the hallway, where his cries bounced from floor to ceiling like strident ping pong balls.

I tried three different sizes of litter pans after realizing that Innka, sadly, has very poor sanitation habits. He goes into an epileptic fury upon defecating, and spews dirty litter into the air. It coats walls like Spackle. A hefty twenty pound cat also leaves a very large deposit behind. Somehow, when all this was happening in the garage instead of the bedroom, it was less intrusive on my sleep.

Ignorance really IS bliss. It sure smells better!

One of these days, Innka won’t be a warm, furry lump on the bed next to me, purring softly or slurping delicately at leftover runa wedged between pink toes. I won’t wake up with black cat hair glued to my eyelids or stray grains of kitty litter stuck to my legs or the bottom of my feet. There won’t be a yellowish-grey fairball on the Mexican rug next to my bed.

One of these days it will be quiet all night long, and Innka will be gone. There will be no “surprises” between the sheets or on the floor.

I hope and pray he will be my bedmate for a few more years. How did that old joke go… something like “I wouldn’t kick him/her out for eating crackers in bed?” Innka’s tuna and litter debris fall into this lovely, sentimental view of sharing one’s bed with a less than perfect creature. On the positive side, he does not hog the covers or complain if I want to keep the light on while I read in bed, and he hardly ever snores. Execellent qualities, all in all!

When I think about it, Innka’s going to be a very hard act to follow for a human bed partner to follow.

Well, except for the litter box part…