cat, meet lap. lap, cat. 7.03.2005

I love cats.

Okay, I've admitted my weakness. I love cats. When I was in college I couldn't have a cat, but I dreamed of having one who would want to just sit in my lap all day, purring quietly to itself while it slept in my lap.

Beware what you wish for!

Tigger is now 15, and he snores. And he loves to sleep in my lap, which seems like a very cool thing until you realize that he really likes getting all hot and sweaty in a lap that is perfect for him, but which is about 5 degrees too warm for my lap, especially on a hot summer day when the air conditioner is set to 80 degrees so my electric bill doesn't look like a zip code in northern California.

And he loves to sleep in my lap, even when he has an outbreak of fleas, and when he's been rolling around in the dirt, and especially when he's shedding and I'm wearing clothes for work.

In fact, he so loves to sleep in my lap that he will claw my leg, drawing blood, if he doesn't get his damned precious way.

I have a friend who also loves cats, who thinks Tigger is the greatest thing since sliced bread. He's friendly, and if you sit real still, he'll hop into your lap. Which is great if you're just sitting around chatting with friends. But he also insists upon doing it when you are working on something, or if you are painting something, or if you want to read a book, or anything which is more easily done without a 12 pound cat trying to melt like butter into your lap and heating your lap beyond comfort.

Did I mention the fact that he snores?

Cats are not supposed to snore. They purr, and sometimes kneed your stomache--which is a pain if you don't clip their claws with a nail trimmer. But they are not supposed to snore like grandpa, or even like grandma. Takes the magic of sitting on the porch, watching the sunset over the mulberry tree in your backyard, only to hear a moderate buzzing sound coming from the furry critter now making your lap just a little too hot and sweaty (with a light tinge of cat sweat stink) for comfort.

Worse, if I don't present a lap for the precious little flea bag, he takes whatever is exposed. Like my chest or the crook of my arm, which he manages by hooking his claws into my shirt and hanging on for dear life. Like he is doing now.

My left arm is going to sleep, tiny little pin-pricks of blood is coming from my shoulder, and an old but favorite shirt of mine is gaining a few new holes--all for the sake of a wish of mine, wanting a cat which would sleep in my lap.

Beware what you wish for!

posted by William Woody at 8:32 PM

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A moderate conservative living in the left coast, surrounded by the sureal, wonders if there is a sane life living amongst those who have lost touch with reality.

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