Wake Up Call

This morning I woke up twenty minutes before the alarm because someone was ringing my doorbell, insistently. My sleepy morning brain conjured all of these scenarios that included hand-delivered coffee, or flowers, or both, so I got out of bed and answered the door, only to find my neighbour’s father at the door, ringing the wrong bell.

He was picking her up for the airport, and she was not answering as he began pounding on the door to her apartment. It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps this man wasn’t her father at all. I went in my own place, and attempted to call her. Finally all of the noise woke her up. I hope she had packed the night before.

So here I am, up way earlier than I need to be. I like it though. With coffee, it will be perfect. I don’t feel rushed, and I like that I have time to write a few rambly thoughts here.

The raccoon is back too. He really likes that chair.

If you have never done so, I would encourage you to try writing down the first threads of conscious thought when you wake up in the morning. Don’t try to edit, just commit yourself to a page each day at first, and work your way up to three or more. This morning is illustrating how important it is to take some “me” time before facing the morning commute.

This morning has taught me a lesson in the importance of a morning routine, which admittedly has been frantic for me. How do other people first move into the waking world? Let me know!

My very old cat was diagnosed with diabetes this week. When I adopted him last summer, they thought he was 13. My vet thinks he’s quite a bit older, perhaps 17? I could start him on insulin, but it’s almost as much money as a rent payment to get that ball rolling. Not to mention the fact that I’d be giving a 90 year old cat needles every day. My other option is to keep him comfortable until he starts to experience pain. If he were a younger cat, the choice would be clear. I suppose now, I’m saying goodbye.

Toulouse is incredibly charming. A real lover-boy, with an alley cat air of elegance. He’s sensitive and tough, a great mouser, a good fighter, deeply affectionate, and highly perceptive of my moods. In some ways, over this last year (for that’s how long we’ve known each other) he’s come to feel like a familiar. When I adopted him, Animal Services said they were afraid he’d never find a home. I couldn’t believe we hadn’t found each other sooner.

So each day now, I feel really aware that it could be the last with the little guy. It’s bringing up all kinds of crazy “sense memories”. Is that the right term? When you experience the memory of feeling? I’ve been down this “terminal” road before, and it’s much easier it is to accept with a cat. A senior cat, at that. (No, I’m not trying to get Seussical here.)

He knows too. That’s the amazing part. He’s taken to curling up under the rack of Coquettes costumes in my bedroom and snoozing until he has me to sleep beside. He never used to be one for hiding, unless the dog was around. He’s also affectionate to the extreme. If I’m here, he needs to be on me or beside me at every second. I am indulging him everything right now.

If any of you have recommendations for incredible treats for felines, I’d love to hear them.

The weekend looks slow, and easy. I intend to relax, and take good care of my body, which was upset at me this week. Brunch, books, long walks, sunshine, coffee, girlfriends, rehearsal. This is my formula for self-preservation.

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