She stares up at me with longing in her eyes. Putting her paws on the lawn-chair, she leaps up and manages to balance on the small amount of available chair space. I look at her. She tilts her head and starts rubbing it against my shirt. I shrug and go back to writing. As long as the claws stay away from my clothes and skin, I don’t mind the company.
But of course the affection can’t stop there. She loves me–or, at least, she loves my petting–and needs to be as close to me as possible. So she proceeds to take one careful step onto my stomach, as if to test if it is safe. I stop writing and watch as she puts her other paw on me and then her back paws.
Now, I don’t know about your cat, but mine has no concept of sitting politely on someone. She’s probably sat on my lap once in my life. No–instead, she prefers the stand-on-humans concept. Stand, walk all over, even crawl up to my chest and rub my face–anything to get some attention.
I wouldn’t mind nearly as much if she didn’t have claws. If she loses her balance, out come the claws to ensure her grip. That’s when I drop my pencil and notebook, grab her, and rip her from my clothes. I place her on the ground as gently as I can muster. She looks at me, an expression of hurt and betrayal.
I scold her, saying she could stay on the lawn-chair as long as the claws didn’t come out. She puts her front paws on the chair again, ignoring me, and so I point to my jeans with a thread coming loose thanks to her. I doubt she listens to a word I say.
When she jumps up on the chair again, undeterred, I’ve had enough. I stand up and stare at her, frowning, as she climbs into my chair and walks around. I go into the garage and emerge with another lawn-chair. I sit in this one instead.
She looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and rejection. I shrug and start writing. She shrugs and starts licking her paw. My mouth forms a smile. Now I can get to my story.
But by now the air is cooler and the hairs on my arms have started to stand up. My watch says it’s just after five. I’m getting bored. And really, Danaye, I think to myself. You didn’t know where you were going with that story anyway. So I stand up, fold up my lawn-chair, and head inside, leaving m cat to groom herself on the other chair. I’ll write outside again tomorrow.