Our cat, unlike the 3.5 million human inhabitants of this city, thinks self-isolation is the best thing that ever happened. Her previous life at our studio meant that we were with her during the day, but not at night, and she was cared for by visitors during the times we were away, so she had to deal with a certain amount of anxiety: Are they really coming back? When? The rules were pretty lax at the studio, though: if she wanted to scratch things, she couldn’t really do much damage, and there was no point telling her she couldn’t get up on the tables and counters. The view from the windows, onto a major north-south street that carries a lot of traffic, was not exciting. Aside from new contributions to her food bowl, the high points of her day were when we’d occasionally take naps on the sofa, or play with her with a string on a stick, and she spent large parts of her time curled up near us, or sitting in our laps as we worked. In the twelve years since she’s lived with us, she’s never broken anything; the worst thing she’s done is to destroy one corner of my upholstered piano bench.
When we moved her here, to our apartment, we expected a long traumatic adjustment. Instead, she did a half-hour reconnaissance of the entire place, and then settled down in a soft chair we’d covered with a fleece throw and started grooming herself. It’s still her preferred spot for afternoon sleeping, but she’s also claimed a corner of the sofa and our entire bed, preferably when our clothes or nightshirts are on it. During the night, she spends part of her time sleeping on J’s back or my hip, if she can, or curled up next to my side or between our heads. This has taken some getting-used to, on our parts, but she seems to be in a state of complete bliss: They're here all the time! They never leave! I get to sleep with them!
We were pretty sure she’d sink her claws into the velveteen sofa, and we were right. She looks with disdain at the scratching post we installed nearby, in spite of catnip sprays, and so we covered the most scratch-worthy parts of the sofa with wide, clear double-stick tape, which seems to have been a deterrent. The main battleground has been the dining room table. We said a firm “no!” but the minute we turn our backs, or turn out the lights and go to bed, she’s on it. Don’t tell me to spray her with water; she’s smart enough never to get on the table when we’re in sight. One morning we realized she’d been digging in the French butter dish -- a beautiful ceramic bowl with lid made by a late friend of ours -- that we’d left uncovered on the table. So we were careful to cover it after that. All seemed fine until a day ago, at 3:00 am, when J. awoke to a crash.
The butter dish was in pieces on the floor, Manon cowering under the table; she fled when he appeared and hid from him for almost a whole day afterward. I gathered the pieces, on hands and knees, and fitted them together; the lid was too smashed to repair, but the bowl seemed possible. Today I got out the super glue and carefully cemented the small pieces, managing to avoid sticking my fingers together or getting stuck to the pot, but somehow covering three of my fingertips with glue. As I type, I have the odd sensation that my fingertips are wrapped in plastic; I suppose it will wear off eventually.
We’re hoping we can continue to remember that there’s a cat in the house when we open the sliding glass doors onto the terrace, since beyond it is a street that will one day become busy again. She’s hoping we’ll forget; she now has a ringside seat for people-watching on the street, and sparrow-hopping in the hedge: I put bread out for the birds today mainly to entertain her, but she'd much rather be out there stalking them. During long sessions of claiming her place on our chests, in an incessant kneading of paws, she purrs so loudly and for so long I’d think she’d faint from exhaustion. Every now and then she looks at me with a gaze, more curious and grateful than reproachful, that seems to ask, “What took you so long?” and I have to admit I wonder the same thing.
