The Dust Age

I had mostly been using Duckworth’s one white whisker to tell him and Marvin (formerly Howie) apart, though there are several other differences, including their general shapes and their profiles. Marvin’s nose doesn’t curve but goes pretty much straight down, giving him a rather exotic look. However, you have to be looking at him from the side to see this. Duckworth has a round little belly. Also, Duckworth’s fur is silky soft and Marvin’s is a little scrubbier, like Hammett’s was. I was thinking one day that if Duckworth were to lose that one white whisker, I could always go back to telling them apart by looking for the distinctive markings on top of Marvin’s head, as if someone had dipped three fingers in peanut butter, or gold leaf, and stroked his head. I took a look at him to confirm this—and saw that those markings were entirely gone, and then one day Duckworth lost that white whisker. He has never grown it back, and even now I still sometimes find it difficult to be sure which cat I'm talking to.

Sometime in August, the cats’ diarrhea finally cleared up, which was great because I was getting really tired of scraping diarrhea off everything in the bathroom.

My parents’ departed charming and beloved cat dribbled poop everywhere he went in his old age. I remember going to visit, which I hope to do again someday, and seeing all the chairs and couches covered with towels.

“Do these towels cover the poop?” I asked.

“No, they cover the upholstery.”

“What covers the poop?”

“Nothing.”

“What?!? How do you sit on poop?”

“Let me demonstrate,” said my father. He extracted a folded white cotton handkerchief from his pocket and said, “Pretend that’s poop.” He tossed the handkerchief onto the seat of the nearest chair and sat down on it.

Aha! So that’s how it’s done.

The cats have been pretty hard on a lot of my possessions. Shredded items include my bicycle seat, sheets, the brand-new shower curtain, the hardwood floor, the paint on the bathroom windowsill, the binding of at least one book, and various shoelaces. I’m trying to learn to love the feeling of grit affixed to the bottom of my feet, because I don’t have time to do anything about it.

However, so far they do not make any particular effort to get out the front door when it opens, which I was quite worried about, since there are two of them, and they also do not seem interested in shredding the upholstered chair. They use the horizontal and vertical scratching surfaces provided.

I see that they teach each other—I was going to say “for good or ill,” but I think it might be only for ill. Marvin has so far not taught Duckworth to cover up his poop, but he has taught him how to let his tongue dangle, flapping, out of his mouth, ready in case there is a suckling opportunity, whether of one’s brother or oneself. It’s kind of gross looking. Because Duckworth does not involve himself with covering up poop, he is perfectly pristine at all times. He smells like cotton candy. Picking him up is like hoisting two loaves’ worth of bread dough; he evidently lacks bones, and he radiates relaxation, often yawning while held. Marvin, whose manner is often worried and tense, does the right thing in regard to his own poop and sometimes in regard to Duckworth’s, as well, and consequently is sometimes filthy; he is undoubtedly the cat who tracked all the diarrhea throughout the place.

Hammett has not been forgotten. I show Duckworth and Marvin a photo of him periodically: “Now, if you want to see what an actual good cat looks like, here’s a photo of one.”

I am using the spray bottle to deter just a few things: hopping onto the kitchen counter or ironing board, and participation in my daily exercises. Regarding the latter, they can get excited and take an exploratory nip of a finger now and then, or try to seize fabric—i.e., my pants—that is moving in a rhythmic manner. For some things, I have adopted the view that their “bad” behavior is a request for affection, even though I’m sure it is usually not. The cat is probably not thinking, “I wish Mom would pick me up,” but rather, “Who even is that chick? I just want to shred these shoelaces.”

One evening as I lay in bed, I felt someone adjusting my coiffure. When I reached back to investigate, I stuck my finger right into the open mouth of a cat and felt its little snip-snap teeth encircling my finger.