Nemo’s day would begin when mine ended.
At 2 am in the morning, she would emerge from her room – my closet – where I had made a cozy warm corner for her to curl about in. Poking her head in through the door, she would saunter out lazily, stretching first her paws, then her back and finally her whole self until she was thoroughly awake. A slight shake and a small toss of the head – and she would be ready – as fresh as a newly minted penny.
Nemo waking up would be my signal to turn in for the night. Wrapping myself up with the covers, I would switch off the light and wait for the little kid to put me to bed. After a few minutes I would hear Nemo scampering about the room and then slowly and with a lot of effort climbing up my bed. She would then rest for a bit, explore the territory, poke me with her nose a couple of times, and then once again start her slow arduous climb. This time she would climb over me.
Now this was exacty what I would wait for. Lying still helped her maintain her balance while she dug her claws in the cover – and often in me as well – in all her efforts to climb over me. Once there, I always imagined her going through the motions of planting a flag on me and declaring “One small climb for me, one giant leap for catkind” – but she would just wobble for a bit and then start walking.
She would walk all the way from my head to my toe; and back again. And then once again. Her tiny paws were like soft jelly pebbles and the terrific full body massage always managed to make me fall asleep within a few minutes.
And that was what the clever little pup would wait for. For as soon as I was out and away from the world of the living, she would have carte blanche to do whatever she liked in my room. And judging from the scene of catastrophe that met me in the mornings I could guess that she had been upto no good.
Nemo herself would be tightly curled up and sleeping innocently in a corner by early morning. But she would always have a tell trace bit of cobweb looped around her ears which gave away the fact that she had been exploring under my bed. My scarves and skirts would micraculously find themselves strewed on the floor, all crumpled up and stepped upon. Any pen or pencil within easy reach would be loitering around on the floor – kicked and rolled over into odd corners. My hairbands and rubber bands would invariably end up under my tables.
One sleepless night I peeped out and watched Nemo. She was under attack from invisible aliens and was valiantly fighting back with a punch in the air and a snap at the back. In the midst of an intense alien invasion she broke off to chase something that was after her tail. After chasing whatever it was that was chasing her, she rolled herself up into a small tight bundle and started biting her own leg.
I guess this is how she managed to make a mess of my room. But she was just a baby cat and was cute and cuddly so I let her have her way. Eventually I even donated one of my skirts to her (she took an abnormal liking to it) and she insisted on sleeping on that it everyday. The skirt even had to accompany her, when The Royal Evilness made me give Nemo away. But loosing Nemo is a tragic story – reserved for yet another day.
