Sinclair, our cat, was being a little snickerdoodle a bit ago. I was making tuna sandwiches for my lunch and called to him as is the custom. I dumped the juice and some large chunks on a plate for him and let him have at it while I finished making my sandwiches. Then, true to being a cat, he appeared at my elbow about 1.5 seconds after I took my first bite. Paw, paw. Eyebrow raised, I got up (WITH my plate; experience is a good teacher) and checked his plate, which still has morsels on it. "Sinclair, come over here," I intoned. He looked at me from the other room, blinking. "Sinkie! You have tuna, right HERE. Get your little fuzzy butt over here and enjoy it! You're not getting mine!!" I sat back down, gently pushing him out of my way with one foot. He squinted his eyes as he turned away, obviously disappointed that he'd chosen me as his human. I took another bite, another, then another, and yet another. I'm afraid to look, but keep eating instead. Then I feel the paw again. Hopeful look at first, followed by that "I'm trying to look hopeful but I'm really expecting, you know" look. I squinted at him and pointed towards the kitchen. "Yours is in there," I explained, holding back the urge to clock him one. He glanced at the kitchen, and immediately peered back into my eyes. "Dude, I want yours, dumbass," the look said, only more innocently. (Damn that innocent look.) I got up (again with plate in hand) and double-checked his plate, since he hadn't asked for at least three or four bites... maybe he'd listened and quickly ate the rest of his treat, and was now back for more. Nope. I called him again. "Sinkie!! You get over here. Look at this. TUNA!" I pointed at the dish, bending over at the waist. My back protested slightly, but I was not to be dissuaded this time. He complied somewhat, approaching about half-way, looking at me like he's totally confused. (Yeah, right.) "Sinkles! This is like, the ultimate treat of kitties everywhere. Get your BUTT over here and FINISH this. You are NOT getting any of mine until you do. Besides, mine has mayonnaise in it. You don't even /like/ mayonnaise, so you might as well eat your share over here!" He sat on his haunches and licked his chops. "But momma, yours needs some fur in it." I stood there a moment, exasperated. "Fine, don't eat it. Forget about getting ANY of mine, then. I don't even care if you DO eat this, you're not getting any of mine now!"
So I sat back down, and he approached quietly. "No," I told him, and ignored his eyes, my indication to him that I was done horsing around. I felt his presence for a bit longer, and when I finally turned to see if he was still there, he'd disappeared.
That cat drives me crazy... but yanno what? He drives me crazy in a very good way. Earlier, I went upstairs to listen to the stereo and do some magazine reading, which I often put off in favour of goofing off on the computer (a habit I'm slowly trying to kick for at least a couple hours a day). EVERY TIME I go up there, Sinclair sticks to me like glue, meowing little faint meows of questioning. "Momma, why are you up here?" he asks, looking around, meowing plaintively. (He's definitely getting more vocal as he ages... I'm glad it's still cute or he'd be living in the shed.) "Oh, hi Sinkie, just doing some reading," I explain as I settle into the chair in front of the speakers. "Mree-ee-ew?" he asks again, rubbing up against me. I pet him briefly and immerse myself in Mac Life. "You're my fuzzy," I tell him, slightly distracted. "Mreew," he answers lightly, and I can see his eyes watching me from over one page. Ut oh. Here it comes. "BUMP!" he says with his big, heavy head, nearly knocking me half-off the chair. I'm suddenly glad he's NOT the dog I kept likening him to when he was a kitten. I grab the magazine hard lest it fall off my lap and pet him again with my other hand. "Yes, momma loves you," I tell him, staring him in the eyes. He blinks at me. "Mree-ee-ew?" he asks. "Gah. Okay, come here." I pick him up, which he usually pretends to hate, and flip him onto his back, settling him on my lap. It's the only real way he "fits" in his adult size. He looks away as if offended, but I caught a glance just in time to see that the look in his eyes is not annoyed, it's happy and contented. I kiss his forehead, his ears, his paws. I tell him I must love him if I'm willing to kiss his stinky little paws. He looks up at me like, "Uh huh." He starts purring and looks away again. I continue my kissing, even as one paw is stuffed up my nose in a weak attempt to stop me. "Moommoommoomph," I say, digging my nose into his fur, which I'll pay for later in the form of wispies I will only manage to get rid of just prior to the next moomphing session. Finally, he starts melting out of my arms, so I flip him again so he's sitting on me, hard. (Man is he heavy.) I support the front of him with my left arm while I stroke him with my free hand. He's still purring, but now he wants my left hand to pet him, too. He pulls one furry arm out of the hold I have him in and rubs up against my left arm. "Peeeeeeeet me," he thinks to me, rubbing hard and digging his clavical into my humerus in the process. I reroute my left arm to include his other side again, lest he break something of mine or fall on the floor trying. "No, no, Sinkie," I tell him softly, "don't fall on the floor just yet." I keep rubbing and petting and he's purring and purring and repeats the clavical to humerus trick a few more times until finally I feel him stiffen, indicating that he's had enough. I let him down. He looks mildly annoyed, but looks up at me. Then his eyes change again and he rubs up against the side of my chair so I can pet him some more. After several more long minutes of this, he flops down on the floor and purrs. The moment he looks away, I sneak in some more reading.
RUB. Yeah, he's not having any of that, not yet. So we go through more rubbing of the chair, petting, purring, staring, a contest to see who can do this game the longest.
Now, I have the day off, and I'm making the most of it. As far as I'm concerned, I don't NEED to read MacLife. Sinclair just turned five years old. That five years passed by REALLY quickly and most of that time I was either at work or sleeping. I look into his eyes, grateful that he's ONLY five, and pet him even more, with earnest love and patience. I'd much rather remember petting him twenty years from now than I would like to remember reading Mac Life. As if he realizes that the game is over, he disappears around the corner. I find him laying just outside the door like a watch-cat, give him a few more pets, unsought, and then settle back in my chair for a real read.
Humans don't own cats. Humans are willing and doting servants to cats. And cats, for some strange reason, like their human servants. Just don't touch their toes.
~w
