Chat Noir

Ok. I've been holding off on blogging about my cat, because I don't want to be that crazy cat lady girl. But something's wrong.

As cuddly as she is, she's never been a lap cat. Until recently. She always wants to be on my lap now. She cries for her treat food all the time when she used to be ok with it being a "treat", drives me insane. My friend Krista had a dream about her the other night and texted me in the morning "How's Cat?". Ominous.

I swear to...hmmm. I almost wrote God. Nope. Um, the Universe? If my cat dies I will lose it. I get it, she's very old, it might happen. But not yet. Please.

My old friend and roomate Monique, thought the Cat was plotting to kill us. Just because she used to chew through our phone cords. (Yes, phones used to have cords. I am very old.) Monique is slightly paranoid. She usually hates men (the Cat not Monique), but that's probably just because she got pulled into being married to Travis with me, and he hated her. And me, apparently.(Exceptions to the rule of who Cat hates being my boyfriend from last summer, Terry, the Cat Whisperer. And of course, Steve. *Footnote* to the men I've dated: you're wondering why some guys get actual names and you were always a nickname? You have to stick around long enough to earn it.)

I call her "Chat Noir" and speak to her mostly in French, but sometimes in Vietnamese. She's a very talented Cat.

Ok, so you're probably wondering why the Cat doesn't have a name. Ever seen Breakfast at Tiffany's? She's a lost girl who decides she'll give the Cat a name once she settles down. Well, I did and I still never named the Cat. I guess, deep down inside, I knew it wouldn't stick. So. In the end, she's the only one who's been here with me through everything. Through being single and married, and alone again. But never completely alone, because I have her. So please don't die.