We have this red chair in the living room.
Scratchy believes it’s his.
It’s got lots of white cat hairs on it. Evidence that Scratchy spends a good deal of his down time curled up and shedding there.
Weekday mornings we make our way, one by one, to the living room. Bill has his coffee and breakfast. I have my coffee. The kids wish they could go back to bed. We spend, oh, maybe ten minutes at the most, all four of us, before Bill leaves for work and I start barking orders at the children. (Or at least that would be Julia’s take on it. No – correction – her latest thing is to throw her arms up in the air and wail “Stop pressuring me!” This, when I ask her to make her bed and get dressed. I know, I know. I need to let up on the poor child.)
Anyway, sometimes one of us – often me – has the temerity to sit on the red chair. I’ll be there, sipping my coffee, talking with Bill, just enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet before the day really begins.
And then the staring begins.
Scratchy. Staring up at me from the floor.
“Um. You’re on my chair.”
He doesn’t meow or anything.
He just stares.
Sometimes he will rise up, one paw on the edge of the seat, to see if there might be any space to spare.
But no. I tend to fold my legs up under me on the chair and lounge to one side. No room for cats.
So he’ll just continue to stare.
And if I get up, he is immediately in my spot. There is no movement, no jump, no pounce. He just…is on the floor…and then he’s on the chair. No in between moment in time. It’s an eye blink.
And he curls up in his rightful place.