Touch

Dating in a pandemic is tough. I am not hip enough to have virtual dates. And quite frankly, the camera puts on 40 pounds. 😉 So touch is something I have been missing.

I am a bit of a survey, trial junkie. Yesterday I went to see if I could qualify for a study for a new night cream. I of course wore a mask which they exchanged for a shield. At one point the clinician was smoothing her hands over my face. I made a joke that we were engaged now because that is the most action I’ve seen in a year and half of quarantine. She laughed.

Of course I made the same joke to my physical therapist who was torturing me after my rotator cuff surgery, but it really did make me think about touch and how much I have missed it. My sweet animals help.

When I open the door to let Seamus out, he nuzzles my hand so that I will pet him and we share a moment looking into each other’s eyes before he tears off to do doggie stuff in the yard.

When Seamus and I go “sleepy” at night, he gets in his crate and the kitties take over. Now they are mostly in it for themselves. Cats are assholes after all, but they take turns covering me. Tate, my 20+ pound love, climbs on my chest so that I can pet him. We snuggle for a bit before he leaves, but I love how it feels when he is content and just sort of curls his paw into my chest. It isn’t kneading, but he just curls his little paw in happiness.

While he is doing that, Charlotte likes to put her front two paws on my arm. And her paws are always warm. That is how I know it is her. She gets impatient and then runs across my legs to get off the bed. Then my old girl Gimpy takes her turn.

Gimpy has always had a knack of inflicting pain with her touch. She climbs all the way up my chest and puts both her front paws on two of the scars from surgery. And she uses torque or leverage or magic to push all ten pounds of her into the most painful experience – until I begin petting her.

Gimpy is all about the face. She wants her chin and cheeks scritched. When I run my hand down her soft back including her tail, she puts her head down and butts me so that I will nuzzle her in return. When I get to the end of her tail, she lifts her head for me to scritch on her face again. We do this for a little while until the OG gets bored and will walk away … stepping on my body the whole time instead of just jumping off.

Then it is Little Bit’s turn. Charlotte is a kneader. She makes biscuits on my chest impaling me again and again, purring the entire time. When I stop petting her, she stops purring and gives a little cry. So I pet her some more and she eventually calms down. She curls her little paws under her – the impaling stops and she sleeps quietly.

The minute I touch her, even in her sleep, she purrs. And then Tate climbs back up, settles in the crook of my knee and puts his head on one foot and a paw on the other. If I extend my leg, he follows with his paw, loathe to lose that contact with me.

I relate to my kitties. And look forward to post-pandemic touch with someone who isn’t getting paid to do it. No offense to my lovely physical therapist Bob.