This is a commentary about the slow lane, about the slowing of time since I suffered a severe brain injury while skateboarding with my dog. This is a blog about recovery; about our '82 VW Westfalia. It's about writing, surfing, camping, married life, bleeding ulcers that make you feel old at 32; about family, friends, and my dog Artie; it's about cruising in fourth gear, getting passed by every car and learning to appreciate every second of it.
Aimee's Siamese cat, Milosh, and I have had a long, tumultuous past. We became enemies shortly after I moved into Aimee's apartment in Gainesville, Florida ten years ago. Shortly after moving in, I remember waking up in the middle of the night after Milosh jumped on my midsection from the nearby dresser. A few nights later she did the same maneuver, only this time landing on my throat.
Despite the dive-bombs, I still tried to get in good with Milosh. That ended one night while Aimee was at work and I was in the small apartment, bored. I got the brush out and tried to groom her, thinking she would enjoy the pampering, like most cats do. I stroked her coat gently. On my second stroke she hissed and swiped at my face. I reacted and yelled, swiping at her face. We sat eye to eye and declared war.
"You're move Milosh," I said to her.
Milosh, now more than 13 years old, is still making moves doing her best to defeat me.
Today, Milosh implemented a new strategy, this time focusing on my weaknesses; namely my lack of smell.
I came home to a cat turd lying on the kitchen floor. There were stains across the linoleum. I did my best to clean Milosh's mess, but without a sense of smell I don't know where that mess is. I left the house and am now waiting for Aimee to sniff around when she gets home. She has officially figured out a way to chase me from my home. I've had enemies before, but never one as clever and as strategical as this Siamese cat.