There’s a Lolcat picture showing one cat eying another suspiciously over the caption “For some time I had suspected Reginald of wrong-doings… Now I believe my own life to be in danger.” Something like that is happening at my place. Except I’m the one doing the eying.
It’s not cats walking in front of me and suddenly coming to a stop, forcing me to violate laws of gravity, laws regarding physics, and laws against blasphemy as I try to avoid stepping on them. It’s not cats dashing between my feet as I go up or down stairs and almost sending us all crashing fatally to the ground. It’s not even the sudden attacks for no apparent reason except that the cat has decided to go psycho. All that is, regrettably, normal. No, this is more insidious. I think they may be trying to kill me with kindness. Or what looks like kindness…
It usually starts early in the morning, after the routine madness of getting up, fixing breakfast, feeding cats, cleaning up, and getting dressed. All of course done while constantly having to work around cats, not step on cats, ignore cats’ vocalizing, and engaging in futile efforts to get cats to go where they should be. To the point of having to pick cats up and carry them where they need to go. It’s easy to herd cats, you just don’t give them the choice to go anywhere except where you want. Even if it means tying them up.
Anyway, while all that raises the old blood pressure and wastes time, eventually things quiet down. And that’s when the suspicious stuff starts. I sit down and almost immediately one or both cats leap onto my lap, if two then they have a brief battle for dominance and trying to get the best spot, before settling down for a snooze. This of course is adorable. But it also cuts off circulation to my legs. And pins me to the chair. Cats who are completely limp seem to weigh much more than a few pounds, and it gets hard to shift around. Or get up. This leads to lost time, lack of exercise, and increased risk of Deep Vein Thrombosis.
Not to mention psychological distress when it finally comes time to get up and the cats have to be shoved off. Or, if I’m feeling strong enough, picked up, held while I step away from the chair, and then put back down on the chair seat to resume their nap. Naturally they often respond to this effort by immediately losing any interest in sleeping. Instead, they begin following me about as I try to get things done.
And follow me, and follow me, and follow me. Constantly rubbing against me, stopping and looking up for head rubs, flopping down in front of me and trying to get a belly rub, wanting to rub faces every time I bend down: That’s a lot of rubbing. It slows me down, but it’s hard to be angry or brusque with the little furballs when they are being so cute and affectionate. Which may all be part of their cunning master plan.
And after a day in which I don’t get as much done as I should have because of cats, I go to bed and the circus starts. They walk on top of me; they paw at the blankets as if they want to burrow under to be near me, but when I lift one up they lose interest and go off and do something else; they once again battle each other to see who gets the best spot. Which seems to be different each night. Pick them up and toss them out of the bedroom and they scratch at the door for hours. All this keeps me awake; which may be the goal. And when I finally fall asleep, it’s to wake up during the night and find they’ve taken up sleeping positions on either side of me and are pinning me down again. Which is a problem because usually why I wake up is I’ve got to go to the bathroom. Fast.
I have no idea why the cats seem to waging this psychological warfare. They were spayed before I got them, so it’s not as if they can blame me for that. They’re not in my will so, should I keel over from stress induced apoplexy, they won’t benefit. God knows they’re not being starved. It’s possible they’re just cats, and this is what cats do to humans.
Or maybe this is their way of asking, “I can has cheezburger?”