Mews from the Front Room

Posted on July 12, 2003 in Cats

Virginia Mew now freely joins the little ones at the feeding bowl orgy. They all stick their heads in at the same time, grabbing bites of stinky patés as they can. Virginia Mew ingests the largest portions and slowly shoves the others aside so that she can fill her stomach. Boadicea is the first to step back and watch from her haunches. Fiona follows. Perhaps there is a growl that I don’t hear that warns them that the Master Cat must eat before the plebians.

Boadicea is the smallest, but still the fiercest when it comes to her toys and possession of me. When I nap during the day, she comes in the bedroom (if I’ve made the mistake of leaving the door open) and nips at me. The tenderest spot she chooses are my armpits. Once she got under the sheets and edged up my thighs, but I quickly halted that death march and she hasn’t repeated the attempt. When she bites inappropriately, I blow in her face. We call her “Jaws”.

Fiona has picked up the extra name of Squealix for the way she whimpers when we pick her up, put her down, tell her to get off the table, feed her, give her fresh water, play with her, and, sometimes, look at her. She also thinks she owns me, but where Bowie bites, she licks me tenderly. I also forbid her access to the place between my thighs.

Being the smallest has made Bowie Virginia Mew’s favorite target. When we leave the front door open to allow air to blow through the screen door, Bowie sits there, catching the breeze and pouncing at the moths and the June bugs which are attracted to the light. Virginia comes up behind her and gives her a toss. This is her spot. When Bowie moves over to the opening sliding glass door, Virginia follows her and does the same thing.

I yell at Ms. Mew: “Stop that! She’s littler than you are! Of all the cats we’ve had, you should appreciate that!”

And in my head, she replies “I know she’s littler. Don’t you know how I have been dying to be the Big Cat all my life and have someone smaller to bully? Why are you mad at me?”

I break it up, pet Bowie. Ms. Mew retreats a few paces and squats, waiting for the pet from me that affirms that she is still my cat, still welcome in the house. I never fail to give it.