Trauma Biscuit

from Ignoring Red Flags

Discovered that the private garage at my new place is very small. I felt I should maybe fold my side mirrors in, or rub Vaseline on the side of the Cherryot. I did get it pulled in without losing any paint, but hoped I would learn the skill that sardines know.

Got everything inside, and discovered that Biscuit was nowhere to be found. I had been so careful. I even closed the garage door after I pulled in, carried her inside, and watched her dart into the apartment to hide, as usual. She has been so traumatized by this.

But then after I got everything in, couldn't find her, looked in every nook and cranny, closet, even checked to see if baseboards were intact in kitchen by dishwasher, because I had lost her when moving into my previous apartment, and that's where she went. Then, as now, I thought she might be some magic cat who could disappear at will. Like the Cheshire Cat, except when Biscuit disappears, she hasn't been smiling. Finally when the laws of logic started to move into considerations of a possible vortex, or a wormhole, or even a parallel universe, I found her. In the corner of the kitchen, atop the cabinet. She's been there now for two hours. Wont' come down.

Then of course, after the hideous 5 days I'd had, I just wanted a shower. But realized I'd left my shower curtain, and also had no towel. I showered anyway, just as I had the at previous apartment when i moved to Colorado--just directed the spray toward the wall and tried not to splash too much. And then I had to just get dressed, and let my clothes absorb the water. Then of course, I found that one towel, but it was too late.

Later on, I had to climb with my sore body up on the counter and lean over the top of fridge to have a discussion with the still-retreated Biscuit.

"Hey Biscuit-head…you know it's okay to come down now. This is our new home. We're staying. No more moving. No more grabbing you and stuffing you in crates and suitcases. It's safe to come down now."

She said  right.

 
"No really. I mean it. I did all that horrible stuff so I could get us here. This is your apartment too. You want the grand tour?"

Turning her head away. Not really.  

I scratched her head,  petted her. "Why don't you just step down onto the top of the fridge, so you can see?"

Not a chance.

"How about if I just help you down?"

Don't you freakin' touch me. You've been trying to kill me all week.

"That's not true, Biscuit. I love you. You're my baby."  Then I added in a collusive whisper, "You know you're my favorite."

Slightly interested now. Really?

"Really. Now let me just help you down."

I picked her up and held her firmly to my chest, still petting her and cooing nice things, and then struggled down off the counter. I set her wriggling onto the carpet in the livingroom. "Look, Biscuit, look how big it is! And over here on the fireplace hearth, I have the litterbox and your food and water, come look."

She obliged, but without much enthusiasm. "Now, in here is the room where my office will be. It's twice the size of all my other office rooms. Look." 

MM-hm.

Walking to the bathroom doorway, like some erstwhile tour guide, I said. "And in here is the bathroom, see? No shower curtain, careful of the puddle on the floor."

She peeked in and nodded, and then swirled with her feather duster tail toward the bedroom door.

"And this is the bedroom. See? There's Monkey on the foamy bed."

She rubbed it along the side, and gave a nod to Monkey who extended a paw, but it was rejected.

Wandering back in the living room, she plopped down in the middle on the carpet. Calmer now. Monkey ambled in with her simian stride, and simian feet and sat down in front of her, gave her a few kisses on the head. Biscuit purred.

Trauma Biscuit

Conversations With my Cats--#1 in a series

So i sat down in my desk chair, and biscuit comes up, with her feather-duster tail conducting some silent orchestra, and i pet her. She lets me do that now, more than she did before. But then she eventually pulls away.

"See?' I say to her. "You realize it's not so bad to have that affection, but you still can't help it. I don't know where that comes from because I've had you since you were an itty bitty kitty, and you've always been safe and nothing bad has ever happened to you. So i guess it's about that nature versus nurture thing, huh, Biscuit? Your genetics make you just a little fucked up. And that's okay, because you're not my biological child."

She made a sound that was like "yeah" and strolled away.

Conversations With my Cats--#1 in a series

Conversations With my Cats--#1 in a series

So i sat down in my desk chair, and biscuit comes up, with her feather-duster tail conducting some silent orchestra, and i pet her. She lets me do that now, more than she did before. But then she eventually pulls away. "See?' I say to her. "You realize it's not so bad to have that affection, but you still can't help it. I don't know where that comes from because i've had you since you were an itty bitty kitty, and you've always been safe and nothing bad has ever happened to you. So i guess it's about that nature versus nurture thing, huh, Biscuit? Your genetics make you just a little fucked up. And that's okay, because you're not my biological child."

She made a sound that was like "yeah" and strolled away.

Conversations With my Cats--#1 in a series

Mental Biscuit

After spending a good 16 hours in my basement office, my feet were stinging cold. When I climbed into bed to continue reading my John Varley novel, I kept being distracted by two things—my feet, of course, and my cat, Biscuit.

I solved the feet problem by nuking one of those gel packs. My feet were then warming up under the covers, but Biscuit was still doing her best to let me know she knew it was bedtime, and that’s when she begins her rituals.

First, it’s blocking my path and mewing, and slithering in and out of my ankles. Then it’s jumping on the bed to await me, still talking in her little kitty voice. She never ceases to be excited when I announce it’s bedtime. Maybe she has a short term memory and forgot that she did the same thing last night and the night before, and on into every previous night since her adoption. I wish i could remain that enthused by something i do every single day of my life.

Regardless, this feline has a screw loose, but that’s usually why I find her so charming. I named her for the incessant biscuit-making she does on any available soft surface. If that’s my chest or my stomach, she’s fine with that. Problem is, she does it for a long long time, and even a tactile person like myself can get a little annoyed by her fervor. I know she can’t help it—I didn’t know that at the time of her adoption, she wasn't yet weaned, but it explains a lot now. Her biscuit-making is an instinctual response—she’s essentially nursing while doing that. I’m afraid this led to her being OCD, though. She has other behaviors that echo this unfulfilled need, though I’ve yet to figure out exactly what they do for her. For instance, she likes to lick plastic sacks. I thought at first it was because there was something delicious spilled on them, but when she did it to all sacks, spilled food or not, I realized she had a plastic sack addiction. I don’t think there are any support groups for that. At least not for cats. I wouldn't be surprised if there were some for people who like to lick sacks. Stranger groups have formed.

Biscuit also likes to lay on the top of the recliner, her legs dangling on either side (see photographic illustration). I think she might also have Borderline Personality Disorder…(I’ve always thought that label was misleading…it’s like “I almost have a personalty, but not quite…I’m right on the border…”) anyway, I think she might be BPD, because she gets all up in my fruit loops all the time, but when I try to pet her, she pulls away. She’s better about that than she used to be, but really—when I’m trying to type, she does a little waltz across the desk in front of me, careful to use her tail as a feather duster, under my nose, and also as a thing-knocker-over, and once when I had a candle on the desk--to my momentary horror, she almost allowed her tail to be Keeper of the Flame.

This frequent attention seeking always ends in her escaping too much affection. She wants it but doesn’t want it, at the same time. She also disappears when I have company and doesn’t trust anyone--except me, but only a little. That’s Social Anxiety Disorder. So she has SAD, BPD and OCD. She reminds me of most of my ex-girlfriends.

Mental Biscuit