The Husband Bear has gone away and left me all on my lonesome. He has gone to the Bigger Smoke (i.e. Hobart) to do Important Bear Business which involves upgrades and consultants and other important Bear’s-job stuffs that I pretend to understand. He is staying in a posh hotel and going out to dinner with people and not even having to pack his lunch because his work is paying for it (trust me, this is a big luxury in the current full-time-writer-poorness climate).
And I don’t want to make it sound like I am some simpering little wifey thing who does a big flop when the Husband Bear is gone, but I have found myself going slightly … odd in his absence.
For one thing, I have started randomly singing songs to myself, like the abovementioned track by the illustrious singer of “I Just Had Sex” (which, by the way, came on in my favourite writing cafe a few weeks ago when the only customers were me and a boy who looked about eighteen. Awkward), and that childhood favourite, “Nobodoy loves me, everybody hates me, think I’ll go and eat some worms”. I’m not sure if the latter actually has an accepted tune to which you are supposed to sing the lyrics. If it does, I’ve forgotten it. So I’ve made up my own. It is high-pitched and off-key and gets louder and more maniacal the longer I sing it.
I have also started talking to Mephy Danger Gordon more. Don’t get me wrong; Mephy and I converse frequently even when HB is around, but when he’s not, the conversations between me and my fuzzy black stealth-cat grow longer. And more, err, random.
For example, this morning I had a glass of cordial. It was only as I tipped a huge glug into my mouth that I realised that the aforementioned glug contained at least one ant, who must have been setting up home in the bottom of the glass (it’s cold and wet here so we have many ant lodgers at the moment). I’m a vegetarian and not in the habit of ingesting anything with legs, a heartbeat or the ability to feel pain (no, carrots don’t scream before you ask and yes, I have been asked that before), so after spending a moment mourning the loss of said fellow lifeform, and experiencing a mild attack of the guilts, I turned to MDG and said, “I just ate an ant. Oh well. Protein.”
Mephy said, “Mow?”
“Ants. The other black meat,” I replied.
“Mow!” said Mephy (Mephy, by the way, does not meow. It is definitely a “mow”).
“Ant you glad it wasn’t you in that glass!” I said. Mephy just looked at me.
“You know I’m usually ant-i-carnivorous,” I said (I was on a roll now).
“Mow,” Mephy sighed. This was obviously cat for “Mum’s lost it”.
Undeterred, I continued. “Eat ant. Just eat ant,” I sang (to the tune of “Eat it”, by Weird Al, which is itself sung to the tune of “Beat It” by Michael Jackson. So I thought it was very postmodern of me. Yes, I actually had that thought). “Get yourself an ant and eat it!”
At that point, Mephy turned tail (which he is literally able to do, being a cat), and left the room in disgust.
I’ve had my payback for his rudeness, though. Over the past few days, I have been documenting Mephy’s inability to successfully hide behind the curtain in our lounge room and have posted said photos on various social networking sites. That’ll teach him. Hit him where it hurts: his stealthcat reputation. Here is one of those photos:
That’s a totally normal thing to do, isn’t it? To take revenge on your cat by besmirching his public image?
And the singing thing? And the ant pun thing? All normal behaviours, right?
No. Not right. All very, very odd behaviours.
Husband Bear? Come back soon?
PS: In saner news, before he left, HB created a snazzy author page for me on Facebook. If you “like” it you will go in the draw to win a signed copy of Thyla!