A Lady and the Tramp

I’ve lived alone too long. No. I’m not whining about being lonely, depressed or bored. Are you kidding? I like love my freedom: I get up when I want, I do what I want, and generally, get away with what I want.

I read the paper every morning with my coffee after I’ve had all the zz’s I need, or I did until recently.

My new cat starts my day by flexing her nails, jamming them into my mattress and stroking my bed skirt. RRrr-i-p, R-iii-pp. She pretends she’s scared but comes peeking around the dresser after two flicks of her tail to check how much progress the lump on the bed has made. I swear I hear her heaving with silent laughter. Her goal is breakfast—NOW—at 6:10 a.m.

I’m a normal retired lady, old enough to make my own decisions, dammit, and nobody’s going to make me change. I’m not getting up before 7:00 a.m. I steal two extra minutes of quiet before the tramp in Lady Gaga charges again. This time she uses her claws to climb my sofa. For whatever reason, hanging off the floor using only her front claws before pushing herself up with her hind legs, nails flexed for better impetus, makes Lady G. much too happy.

She reads me like I’m made of glass.

“Stop it! I’m coming already.”

I don’t often watch television, but occasionally I throw caution to the wind, pour a glass of wine and hope to watch a decent movie to r-e-l-a-x, to give my fingers and brain a rest, (but not my lap). Nope, Lady Gaga has made it clear, my lap belongs to her. I don’t get to do what I want much anymore.

Most days / evenings find me clicking away on my keyboard or surfing the net, reading, or commenting in the blogosphere among other favourite projects. The sleek and trim Lady G. is tired of sleeping and must jump on my lap to wash the sleep out of her marble-size eyes. On second thought, she gives herself an attention-seeking bath like she’s the centre of the universe. Why she must lean on my forearm to take another nap afterwards is beyond me.

I’m such a soft touch, I let her snooze for five minutes or so, (plus, plus) while petting her gently on the top of the head the way she prefers. Sometimes, I get to practice one-finger typing with my left hand while I wait. It’s tedious as hell and slow to boot, but I don’t mind. I’m a woman of a certain age, old enough to make my own decisions dammit, and nobody’s going tomake me change.

I think I’ll take her for a manicure (but not a pedicure); I don’t want her to get the idea I’m a big spender—not big enough to afford a new sofa anytime soon.