We live in a small condo: just me, two Cavalier spaniels (Murphy and Alki), and Grace the Cat. Well, okay, let’s include my crystal partner, Fallon, and Raymond, a fifty-something jade tree who spreads out like an oak.
Yes, our condo is small. Still, it’s plenty of room for my head and Grace the Cat’s tail to be in two separate places at the same time.
So why aren’t they always?
Granted, my animal family and I are close. They all spend time in my lap, and we cuddle as often as we can. But there’s that peculiar cat tail.
Grace lounges on the back of my chair, defying both gravity and my opinion. She’s a small cat (her tail is long, 10 inches long), but she has a distinct knack for putting it in the exact spot of the chair where the back of my head hits. And she won’t move it.
There’s no other place for my head. It belongs in the center of the chair. If I sit straight it’s the only place my head goes. I know, I’ve tried to accommodate Grace’s tail, but I can’t. And won’t.
Yes, I move Grace’s tail out of the way so I can put my head in that spot. But the tail moves. A lot. Even when Grace doesn’t. Her tail will flop on my head, or whack my head, or poke my ear, all while Grace herself is busy pretending she’s busy doing something else. Grace simply doesn’t move, but, then, why should she? Her tail does all the work.
When I get tired of this, I move my head to turn around and complain. You guessed it. When I settle back in, Grace’s tail is back in the spot where my head belongs. We collide.
Is this a weird physics thing? Or plain dumb luck?
Oh, wait, I know! My cat has an attitude. Everybody knows that about cats.
It can’t be me.
(c) 2011 Robyn M Fritz
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