blast from the past

A couple of my favourite professional bloggers who have been doing this a while have taken to posting something written on this day a few years ago. Still short of an original idea but wanting sincerely to keep my promise to blog everyday this month, I've decided that, if the pros can do it, why would it be considered breaking the rules if I, too, glance back on the rare occasion? So I'm declaring every Friday this month "Blast from the Past" day here on innit. Except I'm not usually a daily blogger so my dates don't always match up - therefore, I'm picking my favourite from the month of November for that year. Tonight, we're heading back to my first year, 2004. I CAN'T believe I've been doing this for FIVE YEARS!!

And so that I get the most mileage possible out of this, check back tomorrow for the update ;-)

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 2004
s.a.d. or d.a.f.t?

Now moving into my third winter with Sarah Vaughan (sorry, Syrrah, as she now prefers, although those of you reading from Australia may prefer "Shiraz"), I'm noticing a pattern. It starts early in October, as the days start to shorten: the sudden bursts of energy, tearing across the house like her tail is on fire. The wild eyes. The repeated leaps over my head at odd hours of the night. Then there's the scratching on door posts, walls and expensive, antique oak filing cabinets. By the time the New Year arrives, half the furniture is wrapped in paper while the door posts are protected with tape. I don't believe I'll get much of my deposit back when I move.

If I can just be clinical for a moment, I've started to speculate that SV may suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). Despite the fact that her behaviour is more MAD (Mentally, Adversely Disturbed - I made that up). I mean, if people can get a biochemical imbalance because of the lack of light, why can't a cat?

Of course there's the argument that she doesn't get significantly more light in the summertime, being an indoor cat who's not allowed to be glimpsed in windows by passersby.

Still. Come summer, butter wouldn't melt in her angelic (if rotted out) mouth. She tiptoes like a cherub around the place, never even glancing at her forbidden scratching posts. She NEVER hides lampwork beads or tries to eat fruit-shaped Christmas ornaments. She wouldn't THINK of trying to tear down my handmade lace curtain or systematically rip the leaves of my already floundering fig tree, perched atop the brown wingback chair, watching one spiral to the ground before going after another one. It just wouldn't cross her mind. No, she'd rather sit on a cushion blissfully and think about what a good owner she has (at least that's what I assume consumes her thoughts - what else could it be?)

I will admit, it's not the most enviable life a cat could want, living here with me. In fact, since taking up residence here, SV has been like the Anne Frank of kitties, living in hiding from the pet Gestapo (building management, two doors down). She's not allowed to sit in the downstairs window, or poke her little nose outside. But it's for her own good, really. Of course, try explaining that to her when she's stampeding across the floor at 5:30 a.m. over my downstairs neighbour's bedroom. Do the words "provoked informant" mean nothing to her??

I do wish she could be an outdoors cat - and not just so I could boot her out when she starts getting daft. Or to save on the whole litter box mess. I wish she could go and catch birds and mice (nothing against birds and mice, but it's a cat's life). Frolic in the snow. Climb real trees instead of my filing cabinet. One year I brought a big pile of leaves into the living room for her to pounce on. My roommate at the time, a Korean, thought I was insane (although to be fair I think she thought that just anyway). Syrrah just loved it, even though I was the one who had to throw them around while she just watched.

Right now she's acting fine, curled up, sleeping, beside me - which leads me to believe she's connivingly plotting her next exploit. What will it be, I have to wonder? Shooting cutlery off the kitchen countertop again (bonus points for doing it from forbidden territory)? Tossing my neatly rolled pyramid of dish clothes to the far reaches of the kitchen? Perhaps shovelling all the litter out of the box one more time for a laugh - like I have nothing better to do than chase around in the wake of her calamity - Hurricane Sarah/Syrrah/Shiraz - demolition times three. The perfect storm.

So I'm thinking about a) some serious medication and 2) pet counseling now, to make it through the winter. Just not sure who's going to need more when it comes down to it - her or me.