By Peter Medeiros
I am thankful for the piles of laundry and ironing because it means my loved ones are nearby.
~Nancie J. Carmody
We got Princess Beta Goldeneye, "Princess" for short, when I was in sixth grade, which made us both kittens. She was a wide-eyed calico with a strong affinity for scratching posts and shoulders, which she often confused with one another. My sister, Sarah, saved her from a cardboard box on the side of the highway when she caught the package in her high beams coming home one night. She found Princess wet and shivering but alive. The rest of her litter weren't so lucky. It wasn't long, however, before Sarah left for college.
I am thankful for the piles of laundry and ironing because it means my loved ones are nearby.
~Nancie J. Carmody
We got Princess Beta Goldeneye, "Princess" for short, when I was in sixth grade, which made us both kittens. She was a wide-eyed calico with a strong affinity for scratching posts and shoulders, which she often confused with one another. My sister, Sarah, saved her from a cardboard box on the side of the highway when she caught the package in her high beams coming home one night. She found Princess wet and shivering but alive. The rest of her litter weren't so lucky. It wasn't long, however, before Sarah left for college.
"Take good care of Princess," she told me. "She's used to a lot of attention."
It was a direct order from my big sister, so I went out of my way to make sure that Princess felt properly loved. When I got back from school, I would tell her how my day was and fill her in on all the high school gossip. Princess had grown to be something of a grouch -- she would knock all the pens and books off my desk if I forgot to feed her -- but she remained the best listener I had ever met. Talking to her helped me sort out what had transpired over the course of my day, and I think that Princess enjoyed it, too. At any rate, she didn't complain.
Most of our bonding had to do with household chores, specifically laundry. While some people hate the mindless task of washing clothes, there was nothing Princess viewed with more anticipation. Even after she stopped playing fetch with cat toys, presumably due to the pride that comes with feline adulthood, she would still help me sort clothes fresh from the dryer. My job was to fold all the warm laundry, and her job was to generally disrupt my efforts by snuggling in between the towels and furring my dress pants. Eventually Princess would get herself tired, at which point she would take on a more dignified posture, watching me with sphinx-like stillness except for her serpentine, black and orange tail, which thrashed across the floor in appreciation.
"It's not a very efficient system," my dad told us.
"I'm not saying it's efficient; I'm just saying it works for us."
The cat's silence seemed to indicate agreement. We made a good team.
But six years after Princess Beta Goldeneye became my charge, I was following in my sister's footsteps, moving to Boston for college. Although I was excited about higher education, I was disappointed to hear that there were no pets allowed in the dormitories -- something I should have remembered from when Sarah left for college. College life was exciting and engaging, and I would be lying if I said that I missed Princess enough to make those first few weeks unbearable. But as I got settled into the college routine, I began to think of her more and more often. The worst was when I had to use the communal laundry machines. I would haul the load to the end of our hall and wait next to the humming appliance with a paperback. It was a nice chance to get some reading done, but there was something missing. Something with wide eyes and a penchant for clambering up my back to claw at my shoulder. Folding my clothes back in my room was positively depressing. It got to the point that I considered going without fresh clothes, just to avoid the empty feeling that washed over me when I got out the detergent.
"She really misses you," Dad said when I called home.
"How can you tell?"
"I can just tell," he told me, and we left it at that.
It turned out that Dad had been withholding some significant details. When I came home for a weekend in October of my freshman year, I planned on wearing the clothes I had left behind -- old pants and shirts I hadn't bothered to move to my dorm. But after I trekked home from the train station, greeted my parents, and dropped my bag on my bed, I turned around and saw that a small, concentrated tornado had swept through my room, or at least my wardrobe.
"Dad, what happened to all my clothes?"
"Princess was scratching at your dresser," he said. "She kept raking her claws over it and mewling at odd hours of the night. We tried keeping her out of your room, but she'd just camp outside the door and scratch at that. Eventually, your mother and I gave in and opened your drawers. Why? Did she do something?"
She did. Somehow, Princess -- who, as far as I knew, weighed no more than nine pounds -- had managed to pull nearly all of my jeans, shirts, socks and underwear out of the open drawers and scatter them across the floor. I was baffled. That kind of physical exertion seemed like the sort of behavior fit for a dog, not the kind of work you'd expect from a cat. Especially Princess. She was royalty, after all.
It didn't end there. Dad had said that Princess missed me, so I was surprised that she didn't come to wind herself around my ankles when I was home for the first time in nearly two months. Once I began to pick up my clothes, I found out why. Princess had been fast asleep between a green sweater and a pair of old khakis I had left at home. When I took the sweater off to reveal her fluffy form beneath, she stared up at me as if to say, "There you are! Can't you see how busy I've been without you here to help?"
Apparently, she'd been sleeping in my clothes ever since my folks relented and let her have the drawers. I scratched behind her ears, and she purred the way she used to when she was just a kitten. "Good cat," I said.
The funny thing was that I actually forgot to do laundry that weekend, so the clothes I wore home were still in the wash when I returned to Boston, and I had to sift through my older threads for something that still fit. I wound up in those very same khakis that Princess used as a cushion when I caught the early Monday train back to college.
"Dude, what happened?" my friends asked. "Why are you covered in fur?"
I told them it was my cat, but I left out the details. I didn't tell them that I was clothed in love.
It was a direct order from my big sister, so I went out of my way to make sure that Princess felt properly loved. When I got back from school, I would tell her how my day was and fill her in on all the high school gossip. Princess had grown to be something of a grouch -- she would knock all the pens and books off my desk if I forgot to feed her -- but she remained the best listener I had ever met. Talking to her helped me sort out what had transpired over the course of my day, and I think that Princess enjoyed it, too. At any rate, she didn't complain.
Most of our bonding had to do with household chores, specifically laundry. While some people hate the mindless task of washing clothes, there was nothing Princess viewed with more anticipation. Even after she stopped playing fetch with cat toys, presumably due to the pride that comes with feline adulthood, she would still help me sort clothes fresh from the dryer. My job was to fold all the warm laundry, and her job was to generally disrupt my efforts by snuggling in between the towels and furring my dress pants. Eventually Princess would get herself tired, at which point she would take on a more dignified posture, watching me with sphinx-like stillness except for her serpentine, black and orange tail, which thrashed across the floor in appreciation.
"It's not a very efficient system," my dad told us.
"I'm not saying it's efficient; I'm just saying it works for us."
The cat's silence seemed to indicate agreement. We made a good team.
But six years after Princess Beta Goldeneye became my charge, I was following in my sister's footsteps, moving to Boston for college. Although I was excited about higher education, I was disappointed to hear that there were no pets allowed in the dormitories -- something I should have remembered from when Sarah left for college. College life was exciting and engaging, and I would be lying if I said that I missed Princess enough to make those first few weeks unbearable. But as I got settled into the college routine, I began to think of her more and more often. The worst was when I had to use the communal laundry machines. I would haul the load to the end of our hall and wait next to the humming appliance with a paperback. It was a nice chance to get some reading done, but there was something missing. Something with wide eyes and a penchant for clambering up my back to claw at my shoulder. Folding my clothes back in my room was positively depressing. It got to the point that I considered going without fresh clothes, just to avoid the empty feeling that washed over me when I got out the detergent.
"She really misses you," Dad said when I called home.
"How can you tell?"
"I can just tell," he told me, and we left it at that.
It turned out that Dad had been withholding some significant details. When I came home for a weekend in October of my freshman year, I planned on wearing the clothes I had left behind -- old pants and shirts I hadn't bothered to move to my dorm. But after I trekked home from the train station, greeted my parents, and dropped my bag on my bed, I turned around and saw that a small, concentrated tornado had swept through my room, or at least my wardrobe.
"Dad, what happened to all my clothes?"
"Princess was scratching at your dresser," he said. "She kept raking her claws over it and mewling at odd hours of the night. We tried keeping her out of your room, but she'd just camp outside the door and scratch at that. Eventually, your mother and I gave in and opened your drawers. Why? Did she do something?"
She did. Somehow, Princess -- who, as far as I knew, weighed no more than nine pounds -- had managed to pull nearly all of my jeans, shirts, socks and underwear out of the open drawers and scatter them across the floor. I was baffled. That kind of physical exertion seemed like the sort of behavior fit for a dog, not the kind of work you'd expect from a cat. Especially Princess. She was royalty, after all.
It didn't end there. Dad had said that Princess missed me, so I was surprised that she didn't come to wind herself around my ankles when I was home for the first time in nearly two months. Once I began to pick up my clothes, I found out why. Princess had been fast asleep between a green sweater and a pair of old khakis I had left at home. When I took the sweater off to reveal her fluffy form beneath, she stared up at me as if to say, "There you are! Can't you see how busy I've been without you here to help?"
Apparently, she'd been sleeping in my clothes ever since my folks relented and let her have the drawers. I scratched behind her ears, and she purred the way she used to when she was just a kitten. "Good cat," I said.
The funny thing was that I actually forgot to do laundry that weekend, so the clothes I wore home were still in the wash when I returned to Boston, and I had to sift through my older threads for something that still fit. I wound up in those very same khakis that Princess used as a cushion when I caught the early Monday train back to college.
"Dude, what happened?" my friends asked. "Why are you covered in fur?"
I told them it was my cat, but I left out the details. I didn't tell them that I was clothed in love.
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