I’ve decided that old cats are like some old people: incredibly demanding of attention. This is not a criticism. I’m an old woman, incredibly demanding of attention, so I know one when I see one.
Our elderly cat, Pip, has decided the best spot in the house is to be draped over my left arm as I type at my computer. He’s on me now, purring, just to make me feel guilty if I try to remove him.
This is a relatively new phenomenon and at first it was endearing, but now it’s becoming a pain in the wrist. Every single time I walk into my study and sit in my chair, he appears instantly from another part of the house and jumps on the bed and then walks around the furniture until he sticks out a paw to reach the edge of my desk. And, like a fool, I bring it closer to him because he is elderly and I don’t want him to fall to the floor.
Then, he lies on me like a dead weight and doesn’t move until I can’t stand it and have to wiggle my now very warm and furry arm out from under him, all the while saying to myself, “You’re going to miss this when he’s gone, so you better appreciate it now,” which makes me feel wretched.
It’s the same feeling I used to get when my kids were little and they wanted to help me at the sink, so they’d scrape a chair across the kitchen floor and stand on it and essentially shove me out of the way, splashing water and soap everywhere, while looking at me with such glee that I’d smile and let them do it, even though I wanted to push them off the chair and tell them to leave me alone.
Pip has also started to walk ahead of us at a snail’s pace every time we walk down our hallway. It’s like a little parade every time we want to get to the kitchen, bathroom or bedroom. Not only that, he purr-meows every three seconds while doing it. He’s like a heat-seeking missile looking for his target. We can’t go anywhere without his approval. He’s a small and furry crossing guard, who’s afraid we’re going to get hurt if we walk to the linen closet.
But he’s so slow! I’ve almost killed myself several times trying not to trip over him. He’s like that miserable, snail-paced driver who’s in front of you when you’re late for an appointment. No amount of huffing or puffing makes him move, so you end up pulling your hair out and swearing to no avail.
I know this behaviour has come about because he misses his brother. It doesn’t matter that he picked on him his whole life. Now that Neo is gone, it’s lonely in the house without him. I understand that. The kids left long ago, but sometimes I feel lost and I’d love to have them come home and pat me on the head or let me follow them around, wherever they’re going.
I do have a kinship with this cat. I recognize his neediness at this point in his life, but being the one he’s decided he can’t live without is a strain. It’s getting to the point where I’m avoiding my desk, which is playing havoc with this column-writing gig. But how can I shut the door in Pip’s face so I can get some work done? I can feel his Puss in Boots eyes boring into the back of my skull. What is it with mothers and guilt?
And don’t say, “Well, he’s just a cat.” A cat is never just a cat to the people who love him. And if I don’t tolerate this behaviour, I will sorely regret it when he goes to his great catnip reward in the sky. I can already feel his warm presence on my arm, even when he’s not on it.
I hope that lasts.
Lesley Crewe is a writer living in, and loving, Cape Breton. These are the meandering musings of a bored housewife whose ungrateful kids left her alone with a retired husband and a fat cat who couldn’t care less. Her 10th novel, Beholden, is in bookstores now.
