It's Not a Real Cat.

My grandmother, who is 89, had a bout of trigeminal neuralgia a few weeks ago. I'm not particularly close to my grandmother, for reasons which will unveil themselves throughout the course of this blog, but nevertheless it's not as though I wanted stabbing pains to shoot through her entire face. (Until last night. Ah, I kid. I kid.)

So, l recently sent her a card - a benign card, not a get-well-soon card - just a little cheerer-upper, with an illustrated cat going through the motions of a day in the life of a cat. You've seen them. 8am - wake up. 9am - lick butt. 10am - stand directly in front of someone's walking feet. Etc.

Last night, I called her just to check in. (And my mother had just flown to see her, and it's always good to check in and make sure they haven't annihilated each other in some form or another.) My grandmother gets on the phone and, after the customary "what did you have for lunch what did you have for dinner oh that sounds like a good snack but not a meal who ever heard of such a thing," she asked why I sent her that card.

I said I sent it because I thought it was cute.

She asked if I associate the thought of her with cats. Because, she explained, I know she doesn't like cats. When she was once preparing my nephew's bottle (you should know my nephew is now 15), my sister's cat jumped on the counter, and that's all Nana needed to see about a cat.

"You know that's not a real cat, right? That it's a card, with a drawing of a cat on it?" I asked.

She then mentioned that I'd bought her two teddy bears over the course of the last 10 years. (Completely true. She told me she used to love teddy bears when she was younger.)

"Well, I just don't know why you make a connection between me and animals."