One Foot On The Banana Peel

Am I crazy because I talk to my cat, Molly? Based on the stereotype of old ladies living with cats, I am. But I rebuke that stereotype because I'm turning 37 in five days, and that's not old, dammit.

So why do I talk to my cat? Because it's the most refreshing conversations I have most days.

Every morning my boys wake me up, and I hear Molly yowling in the basement--Let Me Out!!! We keep her in the basement so she doesn't wake us up in the middle of the night with her caterwauling. She sleeps a lot during the day, so it only normal to be wide awake in the middle of the night and let everyone know it. I let her out of the basement, and she races indignantly up the stairs.

"How dare you trap me?" she yowls.

I yowl back at her: "Meow! Give me a break, we're sleeping."

She meows back, "I'm too good to sleep in a basement!"

I meow back, "Yeah, right! You're lucky you're not on the street!"

This conversation could go on and on, but usually one of my boys interrupt me. "Mommy," says Ethan. "Is a monster going to destroy New York City?"

"No," I say. "That's just make believe," I say.

"But how do you KNOW?" says Ethan.

"I don't KNOW for sure, but it safe to say that a monster wouldn't destroy New York City," I say.

"But you don't know FOR SURE," says Ethan.

He's right, I don't know FOR SURE. By this time, I try to redirect Ethan and James to eating breakfast and forgetting all that monster nonsense. The nice thing about talking to Molly is, I don't have to redirect her, I just quit meowing at her and she GETS THE HINT.

When Molly doesn't get the hint, and keeps yowling at me, I start talking to her in English. "Stop your yowling!" I cry. "Food is on it's way."

"MEOWWWW," she rebuts. Like, "Don't even think I trust you."

So direct, so refreshing.