&#034When I play with my cat, who knows whether she is not amusing herself with me more than I with her.&#034 -Montaigne

I should have left work earlier today than I did. I could see the dark clouds shoving their way across the sky against each other through the windows from my seat at Brad&#039s large L-shaped oak desk. I managed to get outside with my backpack, purse, long-sleeved shirt and umbrella just as the first angry drops splattered against the hot sidewalk only to begin evaporating into the hot, humid Indiana afternoon, doomed to fall once more. Hating to get my books wet (my novel notebooks being in my bag as well), I wore my backpack on my front, my purse strap across my shoulder, the billowing shirt tucked in the straps between at my waist. The heat choked me off more than the weight of gear around my shoulders and neck, and though it was windy, the air pressed into my nostrils was reeking of stagnancy and exhaust as I walked down Sixth Street.

Only seven blocks–not even a mile–that&#039s all I had to walk to get home. The western sky was blackening like laundry lint from a load of all black T-shirts. Thunder rolled in my ears in between cars passing even though thankfully the lightning remained out of view. The wind was worse than the water, flipping my compact umbrella inside-out three, four, five, maybe even six times. Sturdy contraption, it held up, righting itself when I thrust it into a different angle. My jeans were getting damp though I had rolled up the extra length at my ankles. Gratefully, I had worn my sneakers rather than sandals today. The rain finally caught up with the wind which had rushed past it; now the two competed for which was worse. I wrapped the shirt around my bags, slipping an arm into a sleeve to keep from losing it to the buffeting winds that smacked loose brown curls into my eyes and mouth. I&#039m sure that with the bulge of the backpack beneath the black cloth, I looked like a pregnant woman, back arched, huddled under a blue umbrella against the storm. The muscles at the small of my back began protesting the strange way the weight was distributed around me, used to the backpack being in its rightful spot behind me. The clenching muscles made my pace slow, made me stay out in the rain that much longer as I finally turned the corner of Oak to walk the last block to the apartment.

I knew that Kitty wasn&#039t going to be running down the hall to greet me when I walked in the door, dropping my things around me to release the tension on my back and arms. Kitty hates thunderstorms. Normally, she runs and hides under the couch, curled up in the sagging material beneath it until she&#039s sure there&#039s no more thunder to frighten her. The husband and I had been working with her, getting her to come out, to curl up with us or even just to stay in the bedroom when it storms, trying to get her to relax her fear of storms. I didn&#039t see her as I put my things on the bed, stripped off the damp jeans and went to the bathroom to find a hairpick for my tangled curls, now curlier thanks to the humidity. Sitting down at the computer, I went to open a web browser when I heard the familiar clink of Kitty&#039s nametag against the metal clasp on her collar. Spinning the chair around, I slid out onto the floor on my knees to see a little furry head a few inches back under the bed, her bright green eyes looking at me as I watched her.

A little coaxing and I had her out from under there. I had planned on simply picking her up and holding her, but she flopped on her side and held her paws up, wanting a belly rub. Grinning, I obliged, and she didn&#039t once try to kick or nip at me, a testament to how scared she was. She then led me around the hallway, leaning heavily against the wall near me, not wanting to go any further. I carried her into the bathroom to see if she were hungry, thirsty, anything, but she didn&#039t seem interested. We went back into the bedroom where I held her on my lap while reading my sister&#039s page, amazed that she hadn&#039t leapt off several times when thunder boomed outside. After a few minutes, she finally slid heavily from my lap and wended her way into the closet where I put some cloth down in a corner for her to curl up on in a nice, dark place. She&#039s still there, and the thunder is rattling the windows as I type. I felt compelled to write about her because of her sweet, innocent nature, feeling that even though the storm scares her and knowing that she&#039d rather be under the furniture, she trusts me and looks to me to take care of her and make everything all right. Kitty&#039s my baby, my sweet little girl. I may not have children, but I think that if they&#039re even just a fraction of how wonderful my cat is, then I&#039m looking forward to one day having kids of my own.

Posted: July 22, 2004 at 4:57 pm.