Eccentric Flower:199903/the curious quadruped
From Eccentric Flower
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twenty-six march the curious quadruped I come home for the afternoon. This overjoys the cat. He doesn't usually get any attention from me until after six p.m. The cat walks in circles around the kitchen floor while I wash the coffee maker. When I reach down to pet him, he runs into the living room. As I'm preparing to brew coffee, I look over, two doorways away, into the living room, where he is lying on his back on the carpet, all four feet up in the air, looking at me upside-down. This is calculated cuteness. "If you want attention," I say to him, "you have to come in here. I'm the biped - you come to me, not the other way 'round." He doesn't believe me. I don't believe me either. While I am sitting at the table with this morning's newspaper, waiting for the water to boil for my nouilles et fromage, the cat is still in the living room, still being cute. If I went in there, he would promptly run away. Into the bedroom. Where he would sprawl out on the bed and look nonchalant. I know this game, you see. When my lunch is ready, I turn around and he is lying on the table. "Excuse me," I say politely, "but are you supposed to be on the table?" Meep, he replies. I don't feel like shooing him off, so I just sit and eat while he lies on the table on his side, staring at me. Now I am at the computer. No cats, but then, I'm only answering email and writing this. As soon as I start to work in earnest - anything that takes concentration - he will be in the doorway, rubbing against the furniture, walking around and around my chair - but running away should I try to touch him, or, heaven forbid, actually pick him up and put him on my lap. I do not comprehend the so-called domesticated feline. No, not one little bit.
© columbine |
