Nightmare on Cat's Street

Welcome to my kingdom

It's about time I introduce our cat, our one and only owner, Ramona.

She's a two year-old calico who comes with her own set of tantrums, mood swings, and an abundance of moments of madness that lead to:

-          choking,

-          hiccuping, and

-          tripping

with laughter. Each and ever incident that involved our physical discomfort was triggered by fits of laughter at Ramona's shenanigans.

True story.

Last night, my son had an upset tummy. I filled a hot water bottle (that looks like a tiger) and stuffed it in his bed, right by his tummy. Unfortunately, that was the spot Ramona was interested in. After all, my son belongs to her and she is more that capable of annoying the hell out of him taking care of him. So, after few meows and struggles with the tiger, Ramona circled herself and settled by my son's feet. She was mightily annoyed, that pansy tiger wouldn't rise to her aggressive challenges and assaults.

Coward!

Today, I picked up the hot water bottle and went to empty it in the bathroom's sink. First, I snatched open the Velcro at the back, which issued a loud ripping noise. Ramona jumped two feet in the air and settled on her haunches watching me by the door.

Then I unscrewed the stopper and poured the water out. Mind you, this all happened while the hot water bottle was still in the tiger-cover.

WHAT?????

Ramona went berserk. Her eyes went wide. She swallowed a couple of times, and then licked her whiskers, leaving her tongue out for a while. Finally she murmured something (I always think she's cursing me in cat lingo) and dashed to hide in the living room.

I thought that was weird until I looked at the deflated tiger in my hand.

It sure looked like I killed the tiger, and was planning to get Ramona next. lol

I laughed so hard, I fell on the ground (Yes, lots of bruising in our house take place because of Ramona,) and finally went hunting for Ramona to reassure her that I'm neither Jason nor Freddy.

She's not buying it.

I'm on to you...

Smart cat!

Muwahahaha

Nightmare, imagination, and my son

No, this is not a review of the newly remade "Nightmare on Elm Street." It's something else altogether.


A couple of nights ago, my son woke up from a nightmare that left him shaking with fear, demanding that all lights should be left on. He wouldn't tell me the details of the nightmare, but he blamed it on his imagination.


That statement made me pause; I had to be careful how I would tackle this issue. My 7 years old son was about to hate being imaginative? And then what, he'd grow up to be a stiff uninspired person? God forbid!!!


I had a small talk with him and pointed out that Iron Man, Spider Man, Star Wars, all his PSP games, were products of someone's imagination. The same was applicable to any number of horror movies and books I wouldn't allow him, yet, to watch or read. Yes, this time his imagination had triggered something bad in his mind, but other times it gave him pleasant dreams of winning or acquiring something he craved.


Over the following days, I called his attention to anything he liked as the product of imagination. Ice cream, belt, TV…etc, were all things that someone dreamt of or saw an opportunity to create something wonderful, and seized it.


This morning, I was writing one of my paranormal romance stories, and he walked in on me with my head in my hands, sighing. This is how the conversation went.


Son: What's wrong, Mama?
Me: Ah, I'm stuck.
After a pause, Son: You mean your imagination is gone?
I smiled and shook my head.
Son: Do you need to create a scary monster?
I didn't, not for that book, but I nodded. I wasn't sure I wouldn't crack up smiling broadly in his face if I opened my mouth.
Son: I'll give you one. He can be as big as a building. Mama, write it down, or you'll forget.
I grabbed my notebook and started taking notes.
After a roll of the eyes, Son: He has one thousand legs. No. Make that one thousand six hundred infinity legs. Yeah, and no eyes."
I pursed my lips, wondering…
Me: Is this from one of your nightmares?
Son: No, this is fresh for you from my imagination.
Me (smiling again): Okay, what does he do usually?
Son, frowning: What do you mean?
Me: The monster. He has to do something bad to be called a monster.
Son: He is the worst, Mama. He is too ugly to look at.


I heart my son.