Wednesday, May 2, 2012
You're good to go, ma'am
Hobbes has this weird thing where he has to sit on me right when he wakes up--and when I'm still sleeping. He sits square on my chest, digging his kitty heels right into my breastbone. And he gets there by catapulting onto the bed and walking the entire length of me, all 47 lbs of stripey goodness digging into me with those little teeny tiny feet. It hurts like hell, but sometimes you gotta take lovin' any way you can.
I'm not sure what started this, but he's now started to repeat this gig when Joe comes home from work each day. Joe's coming in just happens to coincide with the tail end of Mom and Grace read/nap hour, so again, I'm lying prone to this love assault.
Imagine someone tossing an ottoman on your chest as you sleep--that's akin to Hobbes jumping on you to tell you how much he loves you. Only with more fur and drool than an ottoman typically has.
I was lying there yesterday, with Hobbes heels digging into the middle of me, when I said to him, "Hobbes. You're in a bad rut, dude. Maybe we need to rethink the cuddle time." But then he just purrs and I keep petting him as his stripey fur sails around the room.
It was then that I realized how ridiculous it was that these doctors were pushing for me to have my gallbladder removed with no signs or symptoms whatsoever. Here I was, 17 pound cat on my chest, his feet digging into the spot my gallbladder is located and I don't have any pain. Don't you think that if I was that sick that my cat's feet would at least alert me to some sort of pain? I mean, how does one have an ottoman on their chest and not have pain from a sick gallbladder?
I'm lucky like that--built in second opinion from Dr. 47 lbs of Stripey Goodness.