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Now Rub My Belly
Written By: Donna Rhodes | Issue: September 2024
Tickety-boo’s nighttime rituals are a not-so-subtle reminder of who runs things at Donna’s place.
Artwork by Norma Jean Zahner
Tickety-boo*, my cat, is meowing. She wants to go to bed. What she really wants is for me to go to bed with her, so I will rub her belly. That’s her Taps of the day. She’s written her own lyrics:
Day is done.
Gone the sun.
Turn off the tele,
Wash your hands,
They are smelly.
Give me a pallet . . .
Your favorite jacket.
Now rub my belly!
This ritual happens every night just as the sun sets, nowadays 8:30-ish. She starts about 15 minutes before the sun goes down. The meows begin piano, then mezzo piano, then forte, ramping up to a fortississimo, loud enough to knock over the piano itself. If that doesn’t work, she will start scratching walls, then furniture, then prize rugs. Her pièce de resistance is going for the cords on the blinds, chewing off those annoying little knobs. That’s when I cave.
As I lie there, belly-rubbing with just the right speed, right touch, right mood for the evening (some nights require tickle while others, a classic panache), I am reminded of Terry Pratchett’s quote, “In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this.”
Good night feline goddesses everywhere, two legs or four.
*Tickety Boo is a 20th century English, upper class expression for everything’s just fine. In our house, it’s always fine for Tickety as long as she is getting her way.
