Cats are my favorite. They are. Right next to dogs, pizza, saying the word "vagina" to my mom, and The Fiance. Not, you know, in that order.
My cats, in particular, are like small people, only with four legs and irritating bathroom habits. And that whole fur thing. Regardless, they are people. And they have little personalities and wet noses and smell like Cat. I love them.
Harley, for example, is a whore. Not, like, sleeping around with neighborhood felines whore, but an attention whore. You must look at Harley, at all times. And if you're not looking, you must be petting. And if you're not looking and you're not petting, you are A) dead to her and B) going to be either looking or petting her, if not both, before she's done with you.
Exhibit A) Yesterday morning.
I, of all the nerve, was curled in a blanket on the couch, very much into the book in my lap. I was not looking at Harley, certainly was not petting Harley, and quite frankly, didn't know where Harley was because, hi, I am reading. But I may as well have dropped her off on the side of a deserted highway at night with a shock collar around her neck and a broken leg, because people, I was not paying attention to her - synonymous with imminent death. Probably mine, not hers.
Before long, as Chicken curled pleasantly at my feet because Chicken is not Satan, and really, would much rather be left alone (read: she's sort of a bitch, albeit a precious one), Harley fumbled her way onto the couch and haphazardly onto my knees, which were slightly bent, making the whole process quite difficult.
I had been infiltrated, and I glanced in her direction. I mistakenly believed that standing awkwardly on my knees would suffice, until she slumped across them, one paw stretched across the page I was reading, her body fluid amongst my knee caps.
"Yes, Harley. Hello. Good to see you."
I stroked her head and kissed the space between her eyes, at the bridge of her nose, because you can't really turn that down. She is rather lovely. And noodle-y. And I want to squish her. And very nonchalantly, I brushed her paw aside, and continued to read.
Oh, Hell no.
She glared at me, as if pushing her paw aside was equivalent to driving a stake into her small, beating heart. As I continued reading, she continued her quest to become center of attention, fidgeting in my lap, attempting to sprawl. Before long, she made it over the hump of my raised knees, and her seemingly-spineless body slid ACROSS my book and into my lap. Meanwhile, she's on her back, paws outstretched to my face. My book, no longer readable, was covered in cat.
And at that point, I had to give up on reading. I had a cat on my lap, on my book, and she had no intentions of leaving. Her body was distorted, her head was upside down and her paws were in the air, but she was satisfied. I had no other option but to look at her.
It's almost as sweet as when she has diarrhea and tracks it throughout the apartment as she runs willy nilly with poo on her butt.
This is why I love my cats.