According to my cat, it is very very cold. Tis the season wherein she stops disdaining my lap and begins to demand it, except when I’m in a room that’s less well-heated than another, in which case she’s curled up as tight as she can get in a nice warm bed.
We’ve been spending a lot more time together lately. It began whilst I was sick, and spending more time than usual in bed reading and dozing. She saw this as a prime opportunity to have her lap and her warm cozy room, too, and would plop down atop me for a long session of purring and snuggles. She looks smug about it, too. She knows all about feline paralysis and the causing thereof.
Her habits haven’t changed now I’m better. She just zips into position more quickly, before I have an opportunity to get up and become productive, causing a lot of lost work at home. We spent most of the last two Fridays this way, with her plopped atop me, so busy being happy that I couldn’t possibly ruin her contentment by demanding a life of my own. On the first Friday, though, she moved to the foot of the bed, where she could settle in to the down blankets and gaze at me with a just-you-wait wink of the eye.
Later, we had a wee nap, with her curled up tight beside my pillow. And then, of course, just as I was about to emerge from our warm cocoon and become productive, she decided she needed my tummy.
She had her little face planted in the topmost blankie, which was killer adorable.
And you really can’t move when a nineteen year-old homicidal felid is being that precious. So I gave up and just continued reading. There are worse ways to spend a cold evening. Which is apparently her opinion, as well, as the following Friday was spent nearly exclusively with me providing a warm space for her to lie upon.
On the one hand, the house is a disaster. On the other, I’m getting really really good at writing from odd angles…
The bitter-cold weather outside and the loving warm kitty inside rather reminds me of one of my favorite Moby songs, which I share with you here.