I wish it weren't so, but it's not always easy to be thankful. Now and then you have to work at it--often, in fact. Meet Smokey, who we love, even when we're not at all sure we like him.
When he leaves deposits in corners where he shouldn't, for instance. When he refuses to use the two sandboxes--not just one, but two, which we conveniently and lovingly leave for him. When he decides the best place to sleep is cheek-to-cheek with my wife, literally. That's for starters.
Or when some flying leap puts him on my chest, no, on my belly, just about knocking me out of wind (he is not a little kitty). Smokey is gifted, as all cats are, with a stealthiness borne by the strict silence of his hefty pads. Even though he and his ancestry left off hunting back in the primeval forest, he's capable of perfectly executed sneak attacks and takes vile pleasure in his successes.
I yell a lot, but, like a fool, let him sit, thereby guaranteeing he'll do it again, which he does, despite my whooping.
Just like every morning, he's out in the garage right now looking for mice or doing whatever it is he does out there. But when I go upstairs, he'll bellyache about injustice, threaten to the take me to the International Court of Justice in the Hague. He won't look at me, even acknowledge my presence or my giving him precious liberty; like a barbarian, he'll go instead directly to his food dish. After a few noisy mouthfuls he'll look for some warmth against his mistress's cheek. You can set your clock by his rituals. He could be a monk if he wasn't so faithless.
He's a Russian blue, we're told, but he's been with us for five or so years and has shown no penchant for communist ways. He despises socialism like a redneck republican, and voted for Trump because he so admires the man's cat-like selfishness. He wanted a real Trump flag in the garage, but that's where we drew the line.
This morning I'm thankful for Smokey, even if he's living proof it's not always easy to to be thankful.
No comments:
Post a Comment