Two weekends ago, I flew to Texas to go to Austin City Limits (a huge music festival spanning 3 days) with two of my closest friends, Sarah and Vessie. We met while studying abroad in Paris way back in 2004, they were my bridesmaids a year later, and we’ve been getting together about once a year ever since.
We got tickets for Friday, and spent all day listening to music and trying to find a shady spot to establish ourselves. Thankfully the heat there was dry, so as long as you could find a spot out of the sun, it was delightful and perfect in every way.
I also was able to avoid the portapotties 100% of the time. Yes, this may mean that I was actually dehydrated–but I consider it a small victory.
I heard from my friends the toilets actually weren’t so bad. Lucky for them.
Anyway, Vessie has been getting into photography lately. Since my Nikon was outlawed by the rule-makers of the festival (no detachable lenses!), we left my camera behind and Vessie took over with her fancy point-and-shoot. At first I was disappointed . . . but what I got was a wonderful rest from my usual role as photographer. It was amazing. Yes, that role is self-imposed, and yes I usually enjoy it a lot–but for once, it was very freeing not to be the one behind the snappity-snapping. I just got to chill out, man, and be one with the music or something. I am pleased to say that after carting my camera, 2 lenses, battery recharger, and external flash across the country, I didn’t take a single picture the entire weekend . . . until our final morning there.
Because, you see, there were these cats. Layla and Clementine.
And their furriness is unmatched. Peerless. Luxuriant. Decadent.
They require frequent combing to avoid snarls in their kitty armpits and on their kitty haunches. And the sight of Sarah combing Layla in the morning sunshine . . . well, my Nikon and I could not resist.
“Hey lady, that’s a little too much snuggling. Pick up that comb and get back to the grooming! Look at my fierce teeth!”
Did you know that cat bites are actually poisonous? If you get a deep bite, go straight to the emergency room, no joke. It happened to my uncle Brian, and it very, very scary. You’d never guess that those meowing pink little mouths are just a clever concealment for a deadly weapon.
I find it hilarious that I spent a fantastic 3-day weekend with my friends, brought my camera will full intentions of documenting our doings, and yet the only pictures I ended up taking were of these cats. Some may say this proves that I don’t have my priorities straight . . . but a snuggly furralicious kitty trumps it all: close friends. Music Festivals. Pete’s Dueling Piano Bar. The Austin skyline. The beautiful sunset. Mexican food. Thai food. The most scrumptious brunch I’ve ever had (and oh, do I ever need to introduce you to a Bloody Mary if you’ve never had one).
I grew up with three cats, so snuggling a furry animal feels . . . right. It feels like coming home.
Why don’t I own one myself, you ask?
Well, the answer involves hairballs and litterboxes.
Once, when I was 10 or so, I was sleeping in on a lazy Saturday morning. One of the cats came up for a late morning cuddle. Her name was Foca.
She threw up on the bed, on top of the blanket near my feet. Then she flopped down for a snooze.
What kind of a manners are these, for a lady cat?? Then again, not only did she sport a jaunty white moustache, but she also suffered from brain damage at a tender age, so I don’t know if she even understood the term ‘ladylike.’ I mean seriously, who goes around throwing up on peoples’ beds and then settling in for a snuggle as if nothing had happened?
The kicker is, I chose to keep on sleeping, and ignored the vomit for as long as possible. And it wasn’t just a hairball–it was her entire breakfast.
Thankfully, our other two cats Biscuit and Frisky took it upon themselves to clean up after her and simply eat the vomit. They were responsible cats, and had a very loose definition of ‘gourmet.’
And that’s why I don’t currently have cats.
But then I see furry paws like these . . .
I need a litter of kittens delivered to my doorstep by 8am sharp! Do you hear me FedEx Standard Overnight Kitten Delivery Service?
. . . but I don’t know what my husband would say about that. I might be stuck with litterbox duty for the rest of my natural born years. And who wants that?
After seeing Layla get all the attention, Clementine got jealous and came over for a photo op.
She posed serenely. “None of this skanky lolling around for me, thank you very much. I’ve got class,” she meowed.
“That Layla will do anything to get her picture taken. But I’m a decent cat. And you may not have noticed, but my whiskers are extremely photogenic.”
“Just don’t get too close with that lens or you’ll make my whiskers look fat.”
Sarah loves her kitties . . .
. . . and I love Sarah’s kitties.
After a breakfast of sausage and eggs (courtesy of my father-in-law) and a stint on the couch with a hot cup of instant vanilla coffee, the photographic opportunities were too overwhelming to ignore. We grabbed our coats and headed outdoors.
We shook some rapidly melting snow off the pine trees.
The line of twisting grape vines was particularly beautiful.
The sun came out, and the melting snow started falling from the trees like rain.
Within the next couple hours, the snow was completely gone. The only evidence it had been there was the slight sogginess of the yard.
The footprints we left had soon disappeared.
