Here There be a Slave to the Cats

Occasionally, I have to sit on my kitchen floor and methodically open every cabinet and drawer for Felix’s perusal. He cautiously approaches the opening as if expecting a monster to leap out at him, then proceeds to vigorously sniff around at its contents. When he is satisfied, he backs away and waits for me to close it and open the next one. He notifies me of it being time for our routine by sitting in front of a cabinet and using a paw to open it and let it go again repeatedly so that it makes an incessant thumping sound.


I would like to say that this is what my life has been like during quarantine, but honestly, this is just my life in general. Maybe he’s checking to see if I’ve attempted any type of organization since the last time. Sorry to let you down, buddy.


In other news, I tried to take a nap the other day. The keyword there is tried, because it was completely thwarted by Ivy, who loves Felix so much she might murder him one day.


Felix was sleeping peacefully on the blankets beside me, as he does, when Ivy decided that where he was positioned was precisely where she absolutely needed to be. She collapsed in a purring heap, not respectfully beside him or even atop his body, but directly over his head. Felix evidently was fine with this form of casual assassination, because he didn’t even twitch his tail. I had to squish my hand in between them to give him a pocket of air from which to breathe while she continued to purr her pleasure and refuse to even consider moving.


I really do not know what it says about any of us that Felix didn’t bother extracting himself, I didn’t bother moving one of them or ignoring it, and Ivy didn’t see anything questionable about the situation, but there you have it. My cat is murderously in love.