Galvin crop

A reader inquired recently about the Head of the Household — whether she was well (although I suspect the implicit question was whether she was still with us) and, if so, were there any notable exploits to share.

I went straight to the source.

“What’s new, pussycat?” I asked.

She gave me a look, that look she has perfected over the past 14 years.

“You realize,” she said, “that I can’t talk … right?”

There was a pause.

“But,” she continued, without speaking, “if I were to deign to talk to you, I would first express astonishment that you have readers — then, I would say that ‘What’s new, pussycat?’ is just the sort of pop culture reference that betrays your age.”

“Whoa, woooah-woooah oh,” I responded, knowing that I finally had the upper hand.

“And YOU realize,” I told her, “that you are now older than me?”

It’s true. She’s somewhere around 72 at this point, which makes her (mind your own business) years older than I am.

If I were being completely honest, though, the Head of the Household and I are aging pretty much along the same lines.

We each have a hitch in our get-alongs at the moment — both in our hind left legs. Hers, we have learned, is likely just a symptom of aging; an MRI showed no structural damage.

Although, and this would be a stretch, perhaps she adopted an empathetic gait as she’s watched me hobble about the house due to my latest flare-up of sciatica.

Nah … I don’t think so, either.

Still, to see see us follow one another across the living room rug these days — as the third member of the family has done — you’d think we were trying to navigate the floors at The House of Mystery at The Oregon Vortex.

Sciatica, by the way, is really a misnomer. Nothing coming from my own vocal cords during this latest spell could come close to being a sigh.

They really should call this condition scream-atica — although that would conjure images of Al Pacino pacing in front of the Chase Manhattan Bank.

“There you go again,” she said.

She has a point.

Besides, the Head of the Household let me know in no uncertain terms, didn’t my reader (if they really did exist) want to know about her … and not the latest pain in my backside?

As you can see, she is still with us — in relatively fine fettle and not missing or, worse, trapped in some journalistic purgatory with the map to SYA World Headquarters and the Muted Trumpet’s 1934 Pulitzer Prize award.

(I see what I did there.)

That’s not to say that there haven’t been concessions made to age, for us both. I now believe that it has become harder to know what she wants at any given moment, or whether she wants anything at all.

I put a small, stuffed mouse in front of her … and she asks if I’m kidding. She lets out a brief groan, something akin to a car engine refusing to turn over, while standing by her food dish … but walks away when I top off the bowl. She paws at the sliding glass door to the backyard … but refuses to go outside when I open it.

As for her commentary about the state of her bathroom … you’ll have to use your imagination.

She counters my confusion by reminding me that I have never known what she’s wanted at any given moment — and my thinking this is a new development is a sign of my own deteriorating cognition skills.

She has a point.

Truth be told, the real reason the Head of the Household hasn’t been mentioned as frequently from these new digs is that, well, as she has slowed down her exploits aren’t filled with the same pizzaz she once exhibited.

She’s gotten soft — heck, she even allowed the cat-sitter to see her (albeit, briefly) the last time we were away.

Some things, of course, never change. She still reads paperback mysteries with our housemate; still herds us off to the bedroom (although at an earlier hour than in years past); and still sees things and hears sounds in the house that no one else notices.

“Tell your reader,” she offers, finally, “I am content to watch you stumble about.”

Question asked and answered, we limp through the House of Mystery in search of a nap.