After a bike ride to and along the ocean, from the Rockaways to Coney Island, I came home and made myself dinner. After eating, I sat in my over-stuffed chair and watched Cold Case. Before I could lose myself in the details of the story, Charlie climbed onto the chair, and me. Then he curled himself upright against my torso and propped his head on my shoulders. He wriggled, trying to find the perfect position; upon finding it, he closed his eyes and purred deeply. It was better than any vibra-massage chair; soon I found myself dozing off.
He's normally a very friendly cat, but lately I notice that when he climbs onto me, he doesn't want to let go. I don't mind that; in fact, I enjoy it. I would have let him rest on me all night if I didn't have to get up from that chair.
I wonder whether he senses the imminence of my operation. Maybe he thinks I'm going to leave him for a long time or, perhaps, that I won't come back. I will actually be away for about a week and a half and, well, I hope it's not longer than that. Surgical techniques have improved so that I don't expect it to be a major risk, though I still worry about being under anaesthesia.
Whatever's going on, I hope he's not signalling danger or trouble for me--or advancing age and declining health for him. Something in me said, "Maybe he's trying to tell me his days are numbered. "
Whatever it is, he's welcome to climb on me--as long as I'm not wearing a black wool skirt, of course!
And yes, Max, you have the same rights and privileges: All kitties are equal in my house!
Off to sleep again, to the sound and feel of purring.
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