Love machine.
The cat thinks she is in love, but I suspect it’s mostly physical.
Lulabelle, like all cats for whom I have had the privilege of buying smelly food, becomes enthralled with sleeping in certain places. You’d think if you spent two-thirds of your life in a REM cycle, you wouldn’t be so picky about where you did it, but every cat I have known has obsessed on a special place to sleep, and only that place will do, but only temporarily.
For seven days, it’s “Draped precariously over the back of a dining room chair is where all the fashionable cats snore!”, and on day eight they avoid the chair as if it’s covered in yappy terriers. For the next three days, it’s “The hottest feline club in town? Why, everyone knows it’s in the closet, sleeping with your head shoved into a stinky Converse!”
From there, who knows? What makes a sleeping place desirable to a cat is as plain to them as it is opaque to the Big Food Servers who roam the house. Mostly, I let Lulabelle be Lulabelle, except when the chic resting place was draped across a pound of Cheddar cheese.
About two weeks ago, Consort came home and went into the office to check the forty work emails which had accumulated since he left the office. First I heard the surprised yelp, and then I heard “Quinn…?” in the way which could be correctly read as “Please come attend to something. It’s weird, and it’s yours”.
I hear that tone a lot.
I went into the office, and Consort pointed into a shadowy and cramped corner of the desk, where all the extra bits of the computer live. I saw shadow, and then I saw yellow eyes in the shadow; Lulabelle had crammed herself in a space about 60% of her girth and had gone to sleep. Consort coming in and sitting down must have awakened her and caused her to glare at him, which I’m sure had been a nice sprint for his adrenal glands. I reached into the gap and pulled a protesting Lu out and took her back to the sleeping place which had been desirable just that morning, which was under the bedroom bench. She sneered at me and ran off. By the time Consort checked in after dinner to see if any of the forty work emails he answered had left responses, Lulabelle was huddled on the corner of the desk again.
Between Consort and me, someone is on the computer at least half of the time we’re home. The cat was always in her new favorite spot. For the first week, every time one of us would sit down, we’d automatically put our hand into the small space and pull out the cat. After a week, though, once it was confirmed her fur could do the machinery no harm, Consort and I gave up. It was puzzling, though; she was well beyond her usual “Moving on” date with a sleeping spot, and showed no sign of starting to sleep in, say, the shower or the soup tureen. Once, when moving her, I happened to put my hand in the spot where she slept; the external hard drive was comfortably warm and vibrated slightly.
I was charmed. I called Consort in so he could be charmed with me.
“She loves it because it reminds her of her mother!”
Consort put his hand on it. He said dryly, “Or it’s a kitty marital aid.”
AUGH! NO LONGER CHARMED!
I wanted to deny this outright, but the more I thought about it, the more I have been forced to consider the reality. Lulabelle spends extended periods of time with her new friend. When she finally deigns to come out, she is in a fabulous mood, purring furiously and courting my attention. This is the same cat that has usually treated us as if we were the roommates the freshman dorm arbitrarily assigned to her, and she couldn’t wait until sophomore year when she can live with the cool drama majors. I thought we were growing on her; turns out, her electrical friend puts her in such a good mood even we can’t harsh her mellow.
The good news is she can’t hurt the hard drive; the only concern is it could get too hot, and that seems to be when she gets up and leaves for a few minutes. I’m not sure the hard drive is consenting, but I am not sure it isn’t consenting. The activity in which she participates is legal in all fifty states, if for no other reason than she might be the first cat to conceive of it. This appears to be a happy and harmless activity.
But, mark my words; I’m not paying for a wedding.
Lulabelle, like all cats for whom I have had the privilege of buying smelly food, becomes enthralled with sleeping in certain places. You’d think if you spent two-thirds of your life in a REM cycle, you wouldn’t be so picky about where you did it, but every cat I have known has obsessed on a special place to sleep, and only that place will do, but only temporarily.
For seven days, it’s “Draped precariously over the back of a dining room chair is where all the fashionable cats snore!”, and on day eight they avoid the chair as if it’s covered in yappy terriers. For the next three days, it’s “The hottest feline club in town? Why, everyone knows it’s in the closet, sleeping with your head shoved into a stinky Converse!”
From there, who knows? What makes a sleeping place desirable to a cat is as plain to them as it is opaque to the Big Food Servers who roam the house. Mostly, I let Lulabelle be Lulabelle, except when the chic resting place was draped across a pound of Cheddar cheese.
About two weeks ago, Consort came home and went into the office to check the forty work emails which had accumulated since he left the office. First I heard the surprised yelp, and then I heard “Quinn…?” in the way which could be correctly read as “Please come attend to something. It’s weird, and it’s yours”.
I hear that tone a lot.
I went into the office, and Consort pointed into a shadowy and cramped corner of the desk, where all the extra bits of the computer live. I saw shadow, and then I saw yellow eyes in the shadow; Lulabelle had crammed herself in a space about 60% of her girth and had gone to sleep. Consort coming in and sitting down must have awakened her and caused her to glare at him, which I’m sure had been a nice sprint for his adrenal glands. I reached into the gap and pulled a protesting Lu out and took her back to the sleeping place which had been desirable just that morning, which was under the bedroom bench. She sneered at me and ran off. By the time Consort checked in after dinner to see if any of the forty work emails he answered had left responses, Lulabelle was huddled on the corner of the desk again.
Between Consort and me, someone is on the computer at least half of the time we’re home. The cat was always in her new favorite spot. For the first week, every time one of us would sit down, we’d automatically put our hand into the small space and pull out the cat. After a week, though, once it was confirmed her fur could do the machinery no harm, Consort and I gave up. It was puzzling, though; she was well beyond her usual “Moving on” date with a sleeping spot, and showed no sign of starting to sleep in, say, the shower or the soup tureen. Once, when moving her, I happened to put my hand in the spot where she slept; the external hard drive was comfortably warm and vibrated slightly.
I was charmed. I called Consort in so he could be charmed with me.
“She loves it because it reminds her of her mother!”
Consort put his hand on it. He said dryly, “Or it’s a kitty marital aid.”
AUGH! NO LONGER CHARMED!
I wanted to deny this outright, but the more I thought about it, the more I have been forced to consider the reality. Lulabelle spends extended periods of time with her new friend. When she finally deigns to come out, she is in a fabulous mood, purring furiously and courting my attention. This is the same cat that has usually treated us as if we were the roommates the freshman dorm arbitrarily assigned to her, and she couldn’t wait until sophomore year when she can live with the cool drama majors. I thought we were growing on her; turns out, her electrical friend puts her in such a good mood even we can’t harsh her mellow.
The good news is she can’t hurt the hard drive; the only concern is it could get too hot, and that seems to be when she gets up and leaves for a few minutes. I’m not sure the hard drive is consenting, but I am not sure it isn’t consenting. The activity in which she participates is legal in all fifty states, if for no other reason than she might be the first cat to conceive of it. This appears to be a happy and harmless activity.
But, mark my words; I’m not paying for a wedding.
posted by Unknown at 5:47 PM
4 Comments:
A kitty marital aid!!! OMG laughing so hard I can't breathe. Oh. My. Goodness.
Yikes! I am siding with the mother love side of the story. I have a male cat and every weekend we drive between N.Y.C. and Syracuse, NY which is a 5 hour drive. I have a vibrating massage car seat cover on my drivers seat. As soon as I turn the vibration on my cat pops out of his travel bag and onto my lap, which by the way is the only time he is a lap cat. I always assumed he thought I was purring. I choose to continue this form of thought.
i wonder if they could sell them at "A Touch of Romance"?
thanks be to the powers that be that our cat hasn't discovered our hard drive.
Cats are almost as entertaining as kids. Off the subject, I saw a very old documentary about you today on tv. You said it was kind of embarrasing to know your lines and everyone elses too. Cool to find you here.
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