If you've ever loved a cat, you know they sometimes love you back - oddly, occasionally, inconveniently - if not madly, truly, deeply. Every cat I've ever loved had its own peculiar preferences for spending time with me.
Take my cat, Silas, a large orange tabby. Si's idea of a cozy rendezvous is sitting with me in the bathroom. If I do manage to sneak into the loo without him, he paws the door hard. It sounds like someone's trying to pound it down - which someone kind of is. The pawing is relentless, and even a task as basic as the one he's interrupting becomes impossible.
Sometimes, if I'm home alone, I leave the door ajar so I won't have to get up and let him in. Within seconds, his basketball head butts the door wide open, and he strolls in as if to say, "Everything is under control! Go about your business! Just pretend I'm not here!"
However, his approach and demeanor can vary. There's the version where he plops down and settles in like the customer at an all-you-can-eat buffet who's cleaned out the hush puppies pan twice and is prepared to wait for as long as it takes for a fresh batch to be fried - 20 minutes before closing time.
A variation on that theme is Silas, the annoying neighbor. Wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian print shirt and plaid shorts, he flops down in your backyard chaise just as you were about to nap in it - and he brings only one beer, the one he's already drinking.
At times, thinking I'm alone, I'll wonder where Si is only to see him emerge without warning from the linen closet or under the sink - like an Addams Family member roaming hidden tunnels or behind the walls, appearing when you least expect it. When I'm running late, standing at the mirror, frantically slapping on makeup, Silas will pluck my last nerve by doing figure 8s around my ankles. I'm convinced that if Silas were human, he'd be that guy who wakes his wife up at 5 a.m. bugging her for you-know-what.
My favorite Silas move - the one that makes me smile, even as I glance at my watch - is the one where he settles atop my bare feet, paws curled against his chest to purr like a wheezing sphynx. One could argue that there's a whiff of pussycat practicality in this, that Silas is holding me hostage in my own bathroom to warm himself at the expense of my time and toes. But how do we know Silas isn't concerned about my toes and is trying to keep them warm? Maybe he's killing two birds with one stone by keeping us both warm. Diapering babies, cooking a family meal, and patching a kid's torn jeans are practical acts, too, but can also be acts of love.
When Silas lays on my feet, his purr is somehow primeval like something that has rumbled since the dawn of time. Why should I worry that he's slowing me down? Why shouldn't I be happy that he has a win-win way to keep us both warm? Sometimes I need to slow down. And why can't a cat and its human spend some quality time together?
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