I’m not really a cat person, but I am an Ivan person. We’ve been together about 12 years now, give or take one or two. (Don’t judge. I don’t count keeping track of time among my talents. It takes me about five minutes to figure out how old I am when people ask me. It was easiest when I was what my friend Carrie calls the butterfly age-33-which I haven’t been for a few years now.)
I’ve always felt that Ivan, by proximity, makes me a more interesting person. Having him around makes people want to visit me, and his talents are endless. His laser-like focus on building a rocketship from an assorted collection of forks, chapsticks, rubberbands, and bottlecaps is way more exciting than anything I’ve ever tried to put together. His Myspace page attracted all kinds of “kittens” and his editing skills far surpass mine. He taught me how to sit on things, instead of jumping to conclusions. Plus, people like him because he’s fluffy. I’m not that fluffy, even on my best days. And I’m not as chill as him. I have a lot to learn still about the art of calm. I just spent two weeks overcoming a concussion, and I’m about to go insane from all the sleeping. Ivan, who is now ill, is milking his sickness… for milk.
So yes, he’s sick. He has a high fever and is dragging himself around on a painful leg. While the vet and I are on it, he’s reminding me that he is mortal. I’ve jokingly said for a long time that there is no Stacie without Ivan. Yet I also brag that I am not one of those crazy pet people. I guess I never really saw him as a pet. He chose me, after all, I didn’t choose him.
But he is a pet and he will pass someday. Please send us positive thoughts in hopes that day is later than sooner. And milk. Ivan says to send milk, four twisty ties, three soda cans, a solar powered battery, and an ice cube… so he can finish his rocketship. Merci.