Sense of Adventure

Well, not exactly. But close. That much is literally true.

Around 7 AM here in Casa Milán several things tend to happen at once. I need to get up and go offload fluids. Emma Dog wants to go outside, for approximately the same reason. And Squeak, my deranged and adored black cat, decides she has to lie on my chest and be cuddled.

I may have mentioned this before: how she’ll come and stand with her front feet on my shoulder, by way of demanding that I roll onto my back so she can settle in. If that doesn’t work she’ll hop all the way up and perch there. Sometimes that won’t work either, and I’ll awaken later to find her lying asleep on my upper shoulder. Which I find sweet and amusing (if I wasn’t a Pet Mark Squeak would’ve met an awful end long since.)

So this morning I got a new wrinkle. I put out Emma, then came back in and lay down on my right side hoping to get a couple minutes’ sleep before Emma decides she has to come in. I find that the longer I stay awake under such circumstances the harder it is to get back to sleep, so every little bit helps.

Anyway, I’d hardly gotten settled in when here came Squeak. Who promptly reared back and planted her forepaws on my left ear.

“Squeak,” I said. “You’re standing on my head.”

(“Why, yes, Daddy. How nice of you to notice!”)

So I duly rolled over, picking her up and planting her on my sternum in the process. I put my hands over her and we both drifted off to sleep. At least until Emma barked outside the window shortly thereafter…

I hope the cat doesn’t make a habit of that. She’s heavy.

When I’ve blogged about my animals it’s mostly been about Emma. I’m not sure why. Much as I love her, the cats and I are bonded much closer. We’ve got a lot more history.

Maybe that’s part of it. Tales about TJ and Squeak have tails, that reach back a dozen years. Emma’s been with us just going on four. Her stories are simpler.

Anyway, I was just sitting and going through my morning ritual of trying to get my brain to come on, always a significant undertaking. Currently it consists of doing some joint-mobilization moves and exercises, which I’d done, and then sitting on the couch drinking cocoa and reading Terry Pratchett Discworld novels.

Squeak, whose real name is Mia Antoinette, Red for Short (that’s all her name; no one’s ever called her “Red” for any reason whatsoever. See what I mean about backstory?) appeared on the back of the sofa at my left shoulder. She’s a gleaming black cat with auburn undercoat and a few stray white hairs which she’s always had, and eyes that range from amber to baleful yellow-green. She’s also a bit porky. She’s basically a black Siamese.

Anyway, she started dabbing tentatively at my left shoulder. This means she wants to lie on my chest and be cuddled. The problem was she couldn’t find an angle she liked to get into that position. Fortunately she’s not inclined to just launch herself and hope things settle out, which would almost certainly end in my getting numerous thin cuts sliced down my chest and belly by her claws.

So I picked her up and put her on my chest. At which, naturally, she put her ears back and bitched me right out. Then she settled down and began to purr happily.

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