20 Pounds of Housecat

I want some of what my 20 pounds of housecat has.

For one thing, I want to learn how to use the sofa the way he does.  I am capable of sitting on the sofa.  Sometimes, I can stretch across the cushions in a restful position.  My cat, on the other hand, becomes an extension of the sofa itself, an integral part of the cushions.  He bonds with the softness at a molecular level.

My 20 pounds of housecat—as all cats—is also a wholly self-contained unit.  Everything he gives a damn about is onboard.  He will maul a stuffed mouse filled catnip, throw it against the wall, and then saunter off with nary a second thought.  I can call his name all day long and he will only respond if he really, really, really feels like doing so.

And a cat will not waste time and energy wagging a tail when greeting you.  If a cat likes you, they express so by not kicking your ass.

Good enough.

And you’re lucky.

Sometimes, I’ll be staggering about in my house—ever preoccupied with human sensibilities, perhaps distracted by worries that the coolant in my truck’s radiator is not capable of withstanding a minus-thirty degree cold snap; or I might be pondering the latest economic upheaval—and I will walk into one room or another, and find my cat curled into a fuzzy ball on the floor.  A calm and singular mote ignoring the swirls of meaningless activity surrounding.

Who doesn’t wish to be a part of that?

—Mitchell Hegman