Olivia Wigglebothum is days away from being one. In cat terms that means she’s a teenager, insert eye roll, hair flip, and “Mom, stop writing about me!” However the reality is more like a furry toddler.
When I’m making breakfast she’s under my feet, on my feet, and grabbing my feet all while constantly crying for attention and food: “mom, mom, mom.” You can tell that we had eggs today because she has yolk in her mustache and whiskers. It seems futile to clean her up; I assume she is saving the remnants as a treat for later.
Currently, she is sacked out on my lap for her mid morning post breakfast of toddler-kitten champions nap. And I can hear her breathing.
Like a stuffed up child, I can hear her trying to breath through her plugged up nose that she refuses to blow. Kleenexes are evil, boogie stealing torture devices that I insist on using against her. They become even more nefarious at 2 a.m. Her bed is by the dresser in my bedroom. I can hear gigantic purr as she kneads the bed before going to sleep. Unfortunately, like anyone with a cold, the snot and drainage builds up as she sleeps. This means I either wake up to a hacking liquid cough or the squeaking snort of her trying to breath out of part of the one unplugged nostril. So again I find myself on the bathroom floor at 2 a.m. pulling out boogies the size of her sealed up nostrils. Her tiny nose is chapped and raw in spots from my wiping efforts and her licking. The vet told me that I can put a little Vaseline on it to help.
Like any good child up in the middle of the night, Olivia decides that my bed is the best bed and races me back to it, flopping in the middle of where I need to lay down. Getting her settled takes some time for rolling and squeaking and nudging and pawing and rearranging until she is satisfied. Once settled, she’s a warm, soft ball of snuggly goodness until she wakes up at 4 a.m. squeaks the equivalent of “Mom?” and sneezes directly in my face.