My cat is looking at me. She’s snuggled in beside me here on the couch in between me and the keyboard like she does. A not so subtle gesture letting me know that she is concerned by the lack of attention. I attempt to accomodate her concerns while not giving in to the point where I just decide to pack it in and focus 100% on making her purr…once they know it works, you’ll never get to type in peace again.
She’s a lap cat in the most literal sence. She’s also the odds on favorite to be the most spoiled cat this side of the Mississippi River. As I write that last sentence she gets up and runs away.
This is the thing about cats I never got over until I owned my first…they can read minds. This was apparant to me all througout life till now. I’m as allergic to cats as someone could be, and upon entering a house with one or more the sensation would hit me all at once, a feeling of sickness, like being in a gas chamber. The cat walks up and recognizes this, they smell the fear somehow, and from that point on I’m not longer a guest in their house, but a toy. One cat that belonged to a friend named Crooker knew I was petrified of it, so if I crashed on the couch it would be parked next to my face when I woke up wheezing. A couple Allegra’s beforehand would counteract this, but the fear still existed, so the cat would entertian itself at my expense.
They can read emotions of all kinds, they know when you’re talking about them. Lately I’ve considered the posibility that cats are merely the host bodies for all the dead mothers out there who in their past life provoked feelings of guilt to the point were God had to give them this as a next life. Cleo got up and ran away as I wrote that she was spoiled, knowing I’d feel bad.
She’s a sphinx, which is a hairless breed. My girl wanted a cat and I surprised her on a birthday a few years back with Cleo. As long as I don’t pet her then rub my eyes, I’m allergy free. The plan works to