Writing with a sixteen-pound cat on my lap
My laptop sits to my left because my lap is spoken for.
Typing at this angle is permanently curving my spine, destroying any chance I had at softball superstardom. Eventually friends and family will call me frail and fragile behind my bent back, and I will have to convince my wife that I am perfectly capable of getting my own cup of Constant Comment.
Writing at home isn’t as inspiring as writing at a Paris café. No berets, no baguettes, no dog turds on the ground, but plenty of cat hairs on my keyboard and in my mouth. When I talk, the fur flies like Tweety ate Sylvester.
I’ll be here for a while. Getting up, disturbing him, would be a heinous, unforgivable act. If it were up to me, I would have gotten something to drink an hour ago. Maybe started dinner. Definitely would have used the restroom. I share the worries I have about my bladder with my primary care physician.
Frankie eventually leaves, but it is a while before I notice. The carpet of fur he leaves behind works as a feline hologram, fooling me for a good ten minutes. Also, I have lost feeling in the lower half of my body.
He’ll be back shortly. I can hear him flinging cat litter around in the other room, so I best get up while I have the chance.
