Possum overheard me complaining about the difficulties of selecting air conditioners. I was saying for the umpty-tenth time that consumers are left dancing in the dark because it's impossible to judge how unpleasant any given unit's noise will be until it's installed and turned on — and then they're stuck with it, even if it sounds like a jet taking off. And apparently some sound just like that.
His reaction was quizzical:
He said I was obsessing about nothing. He pointed out that, the louder the air conditioner, the more it would drown out even less desirable noise from the street and the neighbors.
He said that people, like cats, should be able to get used to anything and develop patience and tolerance. The example he gave was his breakfast. He'd been getting canned food for breakfast since the beginning of time, he reminded me. But we recently switched to dry food in an effort to reduce some of his, er, excess tonnage. He pointed out that he had been forced to adapt graciously. (If you call staring up from one's food bowl and singing the tenor part of a requiem every morning gracious.) According to him, living with a cooling device that roars like a tractor trailer will be nothing compared to the loss of his longed-for Fancy Beast Classic Chicken. (That's his name for it, not mine.)
One can get used to anything, no matter how horrible, said he, staring fiercely at Snalbert. He sighed dramatically. Then he said that, if the air conditioner drove us crazy, it would be an excellent incentive to move elsewhere, where there might be central air conditioning. And he thinks we need an incentive because this house-hunting exercise has been going on for too long. Take the next decent place that comes along — one with lots of windowsills and hiding places, and crawling with mice and bugs — and be done with it, he said.
Like Snicky before him, Possum enjoys sitting directly in the path of the air conditioner's chilly blast, fur blowing in the breeze. He's looking forward to it; I can't disappoint him. I will take his advice (not the part about the bugs). But I believe it entitles me to sing the soprano part of a requiem to him whenever the darn thing is roaring and keeping me from sleeping.