I’ve been slowed down a bit this week by a chest cold, which has given me time to notice…well…little things…about which I usually don’t give much thought. For example, I’m finally realizing the reality of my purpose in this household, other than my MeowSpace® work.
You see, I always thought I was the revered human; the one who, when coming home from afar, is greeted at the door by my adoring cats. I’ve always assumed that they are simply lost without me, which is why, when I walk through my front door after a long excursion to the mail box and back, they meet and greet me with a fervor only reserved for the beloved Master of the House.
In my state of chest cold induced slow-motion, I’ve had the opportunity to observe, more closely, the reality of my situation, and it isn’t pretty. The aforementioned adoring looks I assumed I was receiving were not at all adoration, but looks of expectation rooted in entitlement. The greetings I’ve received from my cats were not in the least those of two love-starved needy felines, but rather the reception a prisoner might expect from the warden following capture after a botched prison break.
It became very clear to me over the last week, that I am here to serve my cats, and not the other way around. How foolish I have been for the past 5 years! Of couse, I shouldn’t be too hard on myself for being so, should I say, naive. For 51 years, I was a doggie person. I became callous to the daily, unconditional devotion of my K9 kids.
With two cats and no dogs, the looks that I have interpreted to my own ego’s advantage are being redefined minute by agonizing minute. In fact, I now know all too well that each look is an order. “Sit down! I need to bed myself on your warm lap!” “Sit down! I need to take my bath on your warm lap!” “Sit down! You are my bondservant, and you shall sit in waiting until I give you the order to bring me my food!”
I have much more to say on the matter, but I’m afraid I’m receiving an order as I write this. It seems the tapping of my computer keys is disturbing HRFM (Her Royal Feline Majesty), Flopsie’s beauty sleep. Sorry sorry sorry!