I love you, but I don’t understand you. This is the title of the audio cd I’ve ordered for Gabriel. It’s a collection of sermons by Bishop David G. Evans. Hoping it will stimulate dialogue between us, I pop it into the cd player. Gabriel refuses to listen. He is like a three year old with his hands over his ears. He refuses to listen to anything. Help a sistah out here. Something is wrong. I cannot fix it by myself. Will he at least try? Indulge me, please? No. he finds power in being uncooperative. That false sense of accomplishment thing again. I now understand, my king has issues of control. Which of course means he’s out of control.
“Where’s Sheba”, Gabriel asks? Sheba is the resident housecat; nicknamed “Fittylebentoes” she has double paws on each four limbs. Bet you’re wondering if this makes it difficult for her to get around. Nope, Sheba does all right. She is busy living her personal truth.
Up since sunrise cleaning house, doing laundry, cooking breakfast, I’m now busy, engrossed in pr work for Gabriel’s company. I haven’t seen Sheba all morning. Come to think of it, she hasn’t asked me for breakfast yet. This is unusual. Unusual because Sheba “talks”. By responding to her meowing, I have taught her to verbalize her needs. She’s even learned to ask for ice cubes in her water dish, she answers to her name like a puppy. Gabriel is astounded. He didn’t know the cat had that much sense.
We both go throughout the house, opening closets, looking in hampers, checking windowsills; Sheba is nowhere to be found. I call her, bang her dish on the floor, still no Sheba. I’m worried, she sometimes goes out the bedroom window to lie in the sun on the roof. She’s not there either.
“I didn’t know you even liked that cat”. I look at Gabriel surprised he would say such a thing. Sure, I complain about cat hair all over the house. Hairballs cropping up in odd places. But Gabriel doesn’t suffer visitors to our household. Most of the time Sheba is the only somebody I have to talk to. I’ve grown very fond of her.
I comb the neighborhood calling out her name, asking people if they have seen my favorite ball of fluff. It’s been two days, Gabriel and I go out to run errands.
Spying a cat sitting on top of a trashcan I cry out ”There she is. There’s Sheba”. Expecting he will stop the car to pick her up.
“That’s not her” without missing a beat, Gabriel, continues driving. How does he know that? He didn’t even look.
The next day Gabriel calls to me from the basement. “I hear Sheba, but I can’t find her”. I carefully pick my way down the stairs. I can hear Sheba but I don’ t see her either. Ears cocked, I circle the area, ending up in front of the file cabinet. Now this file cabinet is standard office issue, steel gray, five feet high, with locking drawers. I open the top drawer to an explosion of ragged gray fur.
How did she get in there? The cabinet is intact. Even if she had climbed inside, how in the world could she close the drawer behind her?
Gabriel is now the one complaining. The house is full of fleas.
He claims I am obsessed, but I remember. I remember Gabriel tried to control me with emotional distress by stealing his own cat.
