I usually sit typing with my back to the rest of my room. When I reach back to scratch my back under my shirt, I hear the rustling and sense the vibe of excitement come from my cat. Any movement, under any typing of fabric, elicits this overwhelming sense of desperate and ancestral hunter gene in her that is usually quite amusing. This isn’t so much the case when I’m woefully relaxed and unaware, gone in the world of online reading. I’ll scratch, scratch mindlessly and she’ll inch closer and closer, until with one flying leap she’ll swap my hand, sans claws, as if to say, “Bring it – just bring it the Hell on.”
She has the fierceness of a jaguar and the understanding of a newborn that doesn’t understand the concept of peek-a-boo yet, in that, my hand will never actually be prey. I could hear her move toward me just a minute ago at my scratching and waited for her to pounce. She decided that today’s tactic would be to get onto the ledge of my stereo shelf, creeping, ever, so, slowly.
Sadly, I booby-trapped the ledge with all of my zillion remotes that make up my little command center; and again, my Stinky, not the most graceful kitty. One misplaced scrape of the paw and to catch herself she frantically grabs a hold of my desk with her forepaws. She tilts to one side, widens her eyes, lengthens her neck, and turns to me quizzically, “So that right there? Not really what I had planned… Phew…could have been worse though.”