This is K2. The cat, not the peak, although their ego levels are highly comparable. There is a wonderful joy in the way he sashays toward his destination, be it his bowl of kibbles or the teasing frills on the edges of my praying mat. I always thought that the proverbial "catwalk" is an indication that all cats walk the same way. In fact I still do, which is why I believe K2 is uber special.
When we were first naming him, I thought we should choose a simple name. My first cat was ceremoniously named Knight Noam Chomsky and the second, who passed away last year and whose passing kept me mum about it for six months, was christened Joey Benito. I wanted K2 to be mononymous. Like Madonna, ya know. Though not in the way you would imagine. I asked Mr Khan what "cat" is in their language, so based on that, I named the boy Pisho. But Mr Khan wasn't keen on calling him "Cat", the same reason it is odd for many to name their dog "Dog". We ended up calling him Kitty, a name so generic; and, if you could witness what an awfully adorable little thing he was, you would most likely concur. Mr Khan, however, added a twist. Instead of calling him Kitty, he called the boy Kittoo, so for the sake of avoiding misspelling when we take him to the vet, I named him K2.
So he's K2, in Madonna kinda way. But never in the way she sexes up her thang, no. K2 is no where near sexy. But his cuteness is epic. He is so curious and unguarded and bordering on crazy, if you could just see the way he picks on the older Knight. He never gives up, relentlessly bugs the latter, even after I flick his ears in punishment. He knows no rules or boundaries. Almost zombielike, particularly as he repeatedly and unrelentingly bites any parts of Knight that he can grab. Knight will push him, hiss at him, bite him back, but K2 never backs up. Never.
I love him dearly, a love stemming from the joy he brings simply by being stubborn or stupid, or adorable. But I suspect Mr Khan loves him more than I do. You see, where he's coming from, they don't really have pets. They don't treat animals like a member of their family. They probably have farm animals that they eventually come to love, but not in the way we love our pet cats or dogs. They probably won't have any huge problem detaching themselves from an adorable sheep they named Bob, right before they slaughter it. But day after day living with K2, I see my coarse husband evolving into a loving father towards the kitten we adopted since he was barely a wiggly two-month- old baby. It's beautiful. I never thought I would ever witness anything just as beautiful.
Right at this moment as I type this, he walks past me towards his bowl of water. He lays himself down as if he was going to sleep and dip his head into the bowl. And this is how my kitten drinks. While lying down. Have you seen anything so lazy? I have, but other than myself, no. He balloons from 1.2 kg at two months old to 2.6 kg at 4 months old, a week ago, officially beating any record I might have made currently or in the past. Now looking at the way he drinks, I am not surprised.
I'm actually trying to read Barthelme's Sixty Stories. I can't find some of the required short stories for my American Literature essay online, so I end up writing an analysis on my kitten. No offense to K2, but this isn't very healthy.
