There was much excitement in the house today. And a feast.
It is November and the mice are beginning to look for winter homes. Alas (for them), the cats have learned that mice can be eaten. Therein lies a tale, full of chases, dances, phone calls, and much mirth, concluding with a feast in the basement. But I'll save that tale for another day.
Today's post will reflect instead on Remedios's keen understanding of a basic principle of common law: when I occupy a lap, that lap is mine, and I cannot be moved.
I know the various unkind things you may be thinking now, but "yes, that is a lap." If you look closely, you will grey socks peeking out from the end of those legs propped up on the camelback trunk next to my desk. And the apparently endless sea of grey above the black sweatpants is (remarkably bulky) sweatshirt. That is NOT a huge pile of dirty laundry, it is my lap.
Remedios insists that when I type in the morning, I spend at least sometime in this position, so that she can spend at least some time in this position.
It is notable that her right paw is always extended in exactly that pose, so that if she really relaxes and begins to recline, she dig her claws in deeply and keep herself from falling. On the few occasions where this has been tested, it has failed miserably. The moment her claws extend, I arise vigorously and she loses her spot amid howls and curses. But most of the time, we sit quietly together until my typing is more than she can stand and she goes to curl up in a box.
But while she is there, that lap belongs to her.
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