.png)
Sophia Aldous
OUR OPINION
“I swear I don’t love the drama; it loves me.” I’ve always disliked that expression, viewing it as a way for people who actively stir up discontent to clap a hand to their cheek in fake alarm that their manipulative, bear-poking behavior led them to an obvious fallout. That is, until I got cats. I always had a feeling deep down inside that I would become something akin to a crazy cat lady. The COVID-19 pandemic just sped that timeline up, is all. And while it’s not even on the same page, or even the same library as splitting the atom, inside cats are a whole different ball of wax than what I grew up with, which was strictly outside animals. Cats and dogs were rarely allowed inside the house, unless the weather was inclement, or they were hurt/sick.
The transition to pets who spend most of their time indoors came with some learning curves. Nothing steep, but an adjustment to what I thought I knew about being a cat owner.
And I’ve learned that cats love drama. They don’t act like it, of course, but beneath that baby schema is a clockwork of conniving aimed toward immediate gratification.
Yes, I realize that’s most humans too. But for the sake of this anecdote stick with me.
Many of you may know that the Newport Roxy Theater is currently undergoing its remodel as part of the owner’s plan to restore it to its former glory before it was divided into a multiplex. It’s an exciting project that I think should be supported in today’s film industry that is openly indifferent or downright hostile to small town movie theaters, but that’s another column.
I mention it because the sound of workers doing their thing next door to my apartment first raised alarm and then curiosity in my two cats, Twigs and Tich. Though neither are overtly friendly, Twigs is the more suspicious of the two. She constantly crouches at the window and watches the comings and goings from the theater and Newport Library like an overly snoopy matron spying on neighbors with her binoculars, ready to contact the police, conflating groups of children walking together as “gang activity.”
Last week, I mistakenly left the door open that connects my apartment to the rest of the Roxy, thinking the construction noise would deter the cats from exploring. I was wrong, as apparently Twigs took the opportunity to do more in depth reconnaissance on these tool-belted intruders. Then dinner time came, and she didn’t respond to the usual summons. She’s not a chowhound like Tich, so I didn’t think too much of it. As the evening went on, leading into the late hours of the night and then the wee hours of the morning, I grew concerned. She usually responds when she’s called, but my inquiries were met with uncharacteristic silence. I even checked outside on the chance that she had sneakily followed one of the workers when they exited for the day. Finally, I heard her plaintive meows, but I couldn’t pinpoint them. Did she somehow get herself stuck in the ceiling? The walls? Where was she that she couldn’t just saunter her way over to me?
I had been hesitant to go into the front of the theater out of respect for unspoken boundaries between my domicile and my landlord’s business. But after several hours I knew I wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep until I found her, so I broke my rule and went through the swinging door into the lobby. I knew I was on the right track, as her responses became louder to my calls. Rounding the concession counter, I descended the steps leading into the basement, using the flashlight on my cell phone to look around the dim.
“Twigs?” What looked like the ghost of a formerly sentient dust bunny popped its head up, eyes wide as if it had seen things it couldn’t unsee. It was indeed only Twigs, who trotted up to me with a gait that seemed to stress it had taken me long enough to get a clue. Her fur was streaked in grime and cobwebs, which also dangled from her whiskers in delicate gnarls. She looked like the feline version of Pig-Pen from Peanuts.
My ruling theory is that during her theater adventures through the remodel she slipped and fell down the old HVAC system and slid her way down to where the boiler used to be.
Once back in my apartment, she was subjected to her first and hopefully last bath, which, while not a total disaster, was met with the shock and displeasure of someone who has suffered a great indignity. I was treated to accusatory glowers until we finally went to bed, where she acquiesced to sleep on top of my back despite my negligence and hygienic betrayal.
I know. So dramatic. But I love it.
SOPHIA MATTICE-ALDOUS IS A MURROW NEWS FELLOW WORKING DIRECTLY WITH NEWSROOMS AT RANGE MEDIA AND THE NEWPORT MINER NEWSPAPERS THROUGH A PROGRAM ADMINISTERED BY WASHINGTON STATE UNIVERSITY. HER REPORTING IS AVAILABLE FOR USE VIA CREATIVE COMMONS WITH CREDIT.
