Zelda meows in French. She prefers the cheetah chase lounge for resting but just to be sure that she has properly dusted every piece of furniture with her soft, long fur, she rotates between them all. Her stomach is nearly as wide as mine and she has officially been on a diet for the past two and a half years (aside from when Derek slips her sizzling bacon that she has learned to snatch less greedily and more gently).
Zelda meows in French with the pitch & tone of an old lady that has smoked the last half-century. She meows when she wants to be fed again and when she wants to be petted and even louder when she doesn’t want to be pet. She meows when the room is too quiet and hides when it is too loud. She is eternally underfoot when you are running late and will even get a running start to leap upon your leg so that you remember that she is there.
I left Little (Big) Zelda at home this time—roadtrips with cat boxes are borderline unpleasant and it’s tough being the go between when Zelda and Derek start arguing over seats, food and me. So she is there in our hot apartment with the fish and is probably stewing in her anger and laziness and all of her fur on all of our furniture. And it is so lucky that Alice loves Zelda (or maybe just me) and is spoiling her with visits.
When I get back from this journey-road weary and tired- I will be working hard to bribe them both into liking me again. I will bring Zelda some Elk Jerky that hopefully she will prefer to pissing on my luggage. And Alice will get chocolate or coffee or wine. But mostly I am looking forward to giving them each these giant grizzly hugs I have here in my arms. And to hear that little big beast purr into my ears and stuff her furry face into mine.