Catnap

In my experience, humans tend to fall into one of two categories in regards to cats: they love ‘em or they don’t. My personal relationship with cats typically involves the word “SKAT!”

Casa Lanzarotti has two domestic cats: Puffa and Georgina. Presumably, these felines earn their stay by keeping the farm’s mouse population in check. I’m told that the kitchen is occasionally a sporting arena where partially living prey is brought in for game; eventually, the huntress displays her fallen victim to the praise of her human fans. But in my observation, the cats are sleeping on the job.

The wooden dining room table has been converted to a large handicap friendly ironing board. I sit on a bench where I can extend my leg and merrily iron clean laundry from the previous house guests. Meanwhile, I observe the cats in action: napping. I’m fascinated that they can siesta so easily. Per my doctor’s instructions, I’m told to rest. Clearly this has been the hardest challenge of my injury.

Georgina is not concerned with which side of the cat-pack I belong to; she makes her way to me and nestles in the un-yet ironed laundry. “Skat!” I say. Unbothered, I deduce she doesn’t understand English and give her a nudge. She moves – to my extended leg on the bench. Fine. I continue ironing and she continues sleeping.

After the sheets, duvets, table cloths, linen napkins, and towels have been pressed, my feline friend is still in slumber. Her head rests on my thigh. Uncomfortable to wake her, I sit.

And sit.

And sit.

And close my eyes.

--

Hey! Did I actually nap!?

Now if only she can teach me how to consistently land on my feet when in a fall.