Lately, it's ridiculous. Lately, even before he eats, our cat tumbles downstairs with me, waits until I'm sitting behind the desk, then cries frantically before I open my lap. The moment I do, he jumps up and goes just about crazy because he needs so terribly to be held, needs, it seems, finally to be celebrated.
He spends his nights, quite willingly, in the garage, doing who-knows-what, rushes out when we retire as if he's miffed at having spent the day inside. It's all the opposite come morning, when he runs back in as if having been released from the slammer, then begs to go downstairs, where he can get the level of attention he's so badly missed. The thing is, when I sit here, I don't have much of a lap. Finding a place is like napping on the side of a cliff, but he'll find a way to position himself and take whatever attention I can give him, purring madly, as if such these fleeting moments compose exactly the attention he's craved since childhood.
Ten minutes and he's gone back upstairs for breakfast.
Fear not, soon enough he'll be back in my lap as if I'm a chaise lounge, motor running, eyes closed. For a time. Then, whether or not the desk is cluttered, he'll find a messy corner to flop down, then bathe--not well, I might add--before a nap somewhere right beside me, as if he needs me. This morning, here, a Kindle for a pillow.
There are moments when I wonder if maybe we're the ones who need to be celebrated.
Fat chance. He's a cat. He just left.
Greener pastures.
Fame is fickle, or so said Marilyn Monroe. She must have had cats.
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