Cats in Control

I get no respect from the cats. None. But, then neither does anyone else.

No respect for the sleeping: If I am asleep and Gorby wants out, he pounces on the bed, walks all over me, meows in my ear and bumps his nose against my face until I wake up, crawl out of bed and let him out.My daughter used to go to sleep stroking the cat’s nose like a favorite blankey. No problem until she went away to college and left us with a cat accustomed to being dragged around and taken to bed every night.

The cats actually expects the rest of us to enjoy sleeping with them.No matter how many times my son pushes them off the bed and shuts the door in their face, the cats keep returning, hopping up on his bed and soaking up his body heat. Sometimes I see them sitting on his bed, staring at him as he sleeps, just waiting for him to turn over into the ideal snuggle position.
The cats are equally disrespectful of our guests. The last overnight visitor woke up with cats sleeping on either side of his recumbent body. They even scolded him when he woke up and moved to go take a shower.
Speaking of showers, who would think to toss the cat out of the bathroom before showering? Our guests learn to do that. There is something weird, if not downright spooky, to peer through shampoo suds and see a clown faced, black cat looking up. The cat didn’t care that the soapy visitor was appropriately dressed for taking a shower, she just likes to watch, but visitors squawk about the invasion of privacy.

Having to live with a Peeping Tom is one thing, but these cats do not respect one’s personal space. I leave them well enough alone when they are eating, but do they return me the favor?
Not on your life.
Take the other day when I stretched out on the bed with a bowl of cereal and milk to eat while reading a book. At the clink of metal against glass, a ghostly white feline appeared out of nowhere, leapt up on the bed in front of me, walked over my book, and began a microscopic inspection of my snack.
I pushed the cat off the bed.

The cat came back, sat on my book and zeroed in on the milk. So much for my idea of a little time by myself. I warded him off with my elbow, propped up my book and finished my cereal. The cat would not leave me alone until I shoved the dish away from me.

And it is not just snack time disrespect. Inevitably, the minute we sit down to eat, Kramer goes to the back door and looks at it expectantly. It isn’t long before she whines in low C, “Open the door! I want out.” She’s as bad as a little kid in the back seat on a long trip.

I get no respect when I am busy: I was typing away at the computer, finally “in the zone” with brilliance flowing through my fingertips when the cat wanted my attention – my full attention. He leapt up into my lap, nuzzled my face, and pushed himself between me and the keyboard. Absorbed in my work, I kept on typing, thinking he would curl up and take a nap on my lap. In my dreams, that cat wanted me to scratch his head. He nipped at my hands to say, “Enough already with the keys Joanie, time to strum those fingers on me.”

So excuse me, I have to go scratch a cat – it’s the only way I can get him off my lap.


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