Maybe it's the result of being cooped up in the apartment for four and a half days (tomorrow makes that five and a half). Maybe it's that I over-think things (just ask the husband :) ). But I can't stop staring at the cats and thinking What alien life form are you and why are you living in my house?
Really, why do we let these small creatures with their impenetrable thoughts in our homes? Ok, yes, I love them to pieces, but I'm convinced that it's some sort of spell they cast on me. I am certain that the female kitty (K1, for those who recall) regards me as simply a giant walking lap that once a day pours food into the bowl. When the lap is sitting, it must be sat upon. When the lap is standing, it must be begged for treats.
I feel so used.
Yet, I love them! Can't get enough of them! Just want to snuggle my face into their furry little bodies til I sneeze from all the fur up my nozzle. And anyways, I'm just guessing that's that what she thinks. Because, unlike with dogs and husbands and houseguests, cats usually keep their thoughts to themselves. (Why are you sitting in that cardboard box even though it's too small for your bottom? Why is the appearance of a laptop bag cause for intense investigation and much chewing of zipper?)
Maybe this is some sort of alien reality TV show ... I wonder how I could leverage that for 15 minutes of Xordox fame.
Or maybe I should stop staring at the cats and get back to writing that novel.