Poirot Cat, like his Agatha Christie’s famous detective character’s namesake, has a distinctive moustache. His is framed by black fur and is as white as my beard has become.
Or whiter. His face, like all faces, is asymmetrical, so when he meows or yawns it looks a little creepy, because half of his bottom jaw is white instead of black and he seems to come unhinged. Accompany that with a full arched back Halloween black cat stretch and he looks his part much of the time.
He is affectionate when he wants to be, specifically early in the morning and late at night and he sleeps on me from the time I go to sleep until I wake. The older he’s gotten, the more he enjoys sitting on us, giving hugs (especially to Lucy and Juliet and Jen) and being petted occasionally. Now that it is spring and the snow is gone, his passion to be outside in our fenced in yard has returned. It may be all that he thinks about.
Each morning lately has been cold, though, and yesterday it was steadily snowing, and although I obliged him, it wasn’t long before I heard his paw on the back door, asking to be let in. Same thing on the recent rainy mornings. When I open the door he is very vocal, with a combination of what I can only assume is rebuke and happiness. “Why did I let him outside?! Can’t I see how cold it is. There’s even snow. I’m all wet.”
And, “I’m so grateful for you saving me! Oh, it’s you, I’m so happy you let me in. Is there any food?” Much like a Hobbit or visiting Dwarf. Either way, he purrs like a lion when I pick him up and he hugs me tight around my neck and kneads my shoulder like he’s making bread dough with his paws.
In the afternoons when the sun is stronger, we share a red plastic Adirondack chair and enjoy the feeling of freedom from the indoors. He sits, or stands, on my legs and I can feel his purrs vibrating through me not unlike my phone when it rings in my pocket. His, however, is a call that I’m happy to answer anytime it buzzes.
His moustaches can give him a perpetual smile if his face is in a happy place :) but because of his green eyes and dark fur he can simultaneously look angry. He is a conundrum. He gets along with his sister, but rarely David, or he plays too rough. He is dormant and sluggish in the square of sun, waiting by the back door or he is tearing around the upstairs doing zoomies like a race car.
These things endear me to him because he’s him. He’s the same, while being unpredictable, he’s predictable in his habits, while being steady in his love for us, even if it changes. He’s very Minnesotan in his changeable behavior. He is like the now eight inch tulips rising from the recently frozen earth. Akin to the rhubarb, rose red, unfolding like giant, insect-like fiddle head ferns close to the ground. Relative to the green, green, green of new grass whispering that it is already tall enough, after the almost two inches of rain, to be shorn. Exactly how, I cannot say, but I know that he is full of almost electric energy, taut like a bowstring, ready to SPRING.
The days of sleeping on top of a heater seem to be over, though the forecast for next week more than hints of more white stuff. There are gardens to till and flowers to protect from the herds of whitetail deer roaming the neighborhoods. There are fish to catch and projects to finish and more to start. Poirot is smiling at the potential in it all… he seems to frown when I leave for work.
Sure, it may be all in my own mind, but there are far worse things to ponder.
