This is not easy: writing a post on the laptop, with Cat sprawled over my knees. Despite being far from spindly, my knees were not designed to support a cat and a laptop simultaneously. In addition, she seems disturbed by my typing: either by the noise (which is barely audible, to tell the truth, unless her hearing is particularly sensitive) or by the lack of attention I am giving her (tapping away at an inanimate lump of plastic instead of providing her with reassuring pats) or, by some feline intuition beyond human understanding, she is deeply embarrassed by what I am writing about her. To prove the point, she has sloped off now, and refuses to talk to me.
It is a year to the day (almost) since Cat arrived. She had little choice in the matter. Perhaps that is not strictly true: I suspect she used her whiskery wiles to influence us when we first met her at the animal rescue centre. Perhaps all the time that we thought we were methodically assessing each cat in an objective and highly scientific matter, she was actually working her way into our affections by means of purring amicably and wiping her nose on my leg. Perhaps she chose us, rather than the other way round. That makes me feel a little uneasy, but ties in with other things that have happened since; for example, her habit of gradually taking over the whole house rather than be content with the cat basket in a corner of the living room; almost as if there were a masterplan that was being implemented, so slowly as to be imperceptible. And, for that matter, where is she right now? What is she plotting?
No comments:
Post a Comment