The Girl and the Matisse
Unalike babochka the greatest geriatic catchen ever, the Matisse doesn't own me. If he owns anything, it would be the bowl, yes?
Still I cannot help but be captivated by him, how beautiful he is, how silly he is, how well, short bussed he is. How graceful he is, how far he has come since we met on my birthday four years ago. He was so little, especially compared to now. Yet, from the first, he was larger than baba. He was so sad, a traumatized giant six month old kitten with fresh cuts on his nose and a sad sad sad demeanor. But from the first, this tiny giant kitten was a contrandiction, loving to be close yet being so so afraid.
Never once hiding in fear, yet not understanding how to hide when he wanted to play. He still hides by putting his head under the bed. It still cracks me up. It took him a year before he would sit on me at all, 18 months before he would sit on me in front of *gasp* other people, and longer still to learn that he absolutely loved wearing me and sleeping on me and other now-normal Matisseisms, including drooling on my yarn and attempting to cram his giant self into my armpit.
But he is a bundle of joy in a giant furry container. He is happiness epitomized. He is bowl obsession incarnate. He is expandable, able to reach from my ankles to my chest. He is squishable, able to fit in the depression that forms when I sit indian style on the sofa. He is never sleek, and always always always fluffy. He doesn't like having his teethies brushed, but loves the toothpaste. He sets himself on fire and sits in wet sinks. He comes up and snuggles close when I don't feel well, and headbutts the wonderful brush Maia sent because he loves it that much.
Most importantly, he knows to tell me whenever the Vogons attack, because it is imperative that I be aware of their invisible bad poetry spewing presence.