Up and Down and In and Out

My animals come and go, up and down and in and out. I find myself becoming fond of most of them. I live downstairs, but the whole house is mine, and my upstairs pets enjoy quality time with me when I am generous enough to give it. That is, most of them. And that’s fine. After all, I do have my favorites.

Puff and String are my current pets upstairs. I named them after some of my most prized possessions, lucky them. When they first arrived some time ago, heavily burdened with boxes and bags, I met them at the doorway. They greeted me cordially and headed upstairs. This was, of course, intriguing, so I followed.

They are always near each other, always connected at the hands spinning together around the kitchen. Always making some content sounding noise, chatting away. It is good background noise for my naps. Of course there are also the bad sounds, things banging and clanging in the kitchen, non-stop sounds screeching from electronics, the devilish vacuum cleaner.

Puff and String are gone from my house for a long while each day, just like my long-term pet. But they are different because when they get back, the upstairs is warm and they are moving about and talking or sitting still on the couch, all wrapped up together. When that’s the case, I jump right in there with them, and we all fit so well together. I sit on String’s side and let her hold me. It’s better for everyone that way. Puff seems to sniffle and sneeze when he comes too close.

I am not so good at noticing relational signs for animals. To me, everything feels perfect.

Tonight Puff is making something that smells good. I saunter up the stairs and say hello, rubbing on one long, the other, in between. This meal, whatever it is, takes him a long time at the counter. He doesn’t let me sit up there, always pushing me off. I should not condone such bad behaviour. But punishing Puff means punishing String, and I can’t do such a thing when she’s been such a good pet. I contemplate potential discipline for Puff, but my heart isn’t in it. String has not come home yet, and I have not gotten my mandatory belly scratches. It’s been a while, come to think of it. I wish she were here.

Puff wishes the same thing. He sits at the small table long after the two plates of food stop leaking trails of warmth into the air. I jump onto my spot on the window and watch him watch the stairs. Still she does not come. I wait for her until the sky has turned black. Puff puts his head in his hands, and I feel a little bad for the poor thing, but not enough to stay. As String has still not arrived, and she is the reason I deign to give my company in the first place, I decide it’s time to go. I stand up, stretch luxuriously, and hop down. On my way, I flick my tail against his leg in a brief farewell, the goodbye of acquaintances.

However, after some time of boredom I make my way back upstairs because there is not much going on elsewhere. My downstairs pet, the one I came here with, has refilled my food bowl but nothing else is new. She’s really not a sociable creature. I head upstairs to Puff and String, to my comfy spot on the couch.

When I wake up, String is there. Happily, I brush past her but she neglects to reach down and scratch my head as usual. Her hair looks less like string and more like the side of the couch I am not supposed to scratch at, all fuzzy and wild and sticking out in the wrong ways. I don’t usually have to beg for my attention, not from String. But today, even after I voice my complaints, she barely notices me. She looks funny, and her breakfast is shovelfulls of ice cream straight from the tub, not her usual healthy smoothie.

For the first time, I almost want Puff’s company more, but he is still in the room with the door closed. I consider trying to bring him out by swiping my paw under the door. Sometimes that gets a rise out of him, he can be so entertaining. I decide against it. Being ignored makes me tired.

Oddly, my house is quiet. And it turns out quietness is worse than even the vacuum. Who would have thought?

This must be just a bad dream. I head downstairs for my afternoon nap. Because they are both acting out, I have to find a new spot. I curl up under the open dishwasher door downstairs, cozy.

My pets are still restless the next day and the day after that, and the day after that as well. I can’t help it, I sit on their windowsill and observe. They are acting different than before. They don’t touch. Hands stay in pockets or folded across themselves in self-hugs because they don’t give real ones these days. They don’t spin around in the kitchen anymore.

The next thing I know, they are pulling out cardboard boxes and putting things inside. There is lots of noise and heavy footsteps on the stairs, up and down, in and out. I know what that means.

I sit by the doorway wondering if I could sneak into a box, calculating my chances of clinging to the bottom of her car or jumping in the backseat while she is distractedly loading the trunk.

Puff helps her. I barely keep myself from scratching at his ankle, what is he thinking helping her leave like that? He should be hauling her things inside instead of walking slowly to her car again and again. His shoes drag against the pavement with every tortured step.

When no more of String is left upstairs, Puff and I stand at the door and watch as she gets in her car and turns the corner out of sight. We both stay there watching for a long while. We don’t want to go upstairs to the place that she is not. Puff rubs at my head, but I glare and give him a nip on the finger. Finally, some discipline is possible, but at a terrible price. Losing a pet shouldn’t be so hard, but they become like family.

My downstairs pet is as antisocial as usual. Gone again for something or other, the only sign of her presence is my food bowl, filled again. I guess she’s good for something.

Puff is my only company. I wonder if he will bring someone new by, someone to sit entangled in the couch and share dinners with. But I don’t think he will have the heart.

Puff does a lot of crying these days. One afternoon, he interrupts my mid morning nap plopping on my couch. Incredibly inconsiderate, yes, but he’s had a hard time and I let it slide.

I am just about to jump down when his hand rests lightly on my head. I can’t help but tell him to continue, it’s been so long since my pets have returned my affections. So we sit there, the two of us. The greeting of a friend? I guess Puff is not so bad.

I always kind of think she will come back. It is a painful and futile hope.

Puff changes a little all the time over the next long while. His head doesn’t hang so much. He is using the kitchen and the shower again, not just the bed, and he is starting to hum along to his music again. Our relationship is improving as well. He doesn’t push me away. I thought that was as good as I could hope for, but then he started leaving the door open for me and even letting me jump into his bed at night, sniffles be damned. It’s even comfier than the couch. This is a good thing because my joints are getting tired and achy. His company has been good in my old age. Life is not bad, but I have a feeling Puff has the same futile hope as me.