Squeaky is a stickler for routine. Her reaction to any change is not subtle. She gives me a penetrating scowl and lashes her tail up and down.
Every morning we sit together on the window box seat. I’m eating breaky, while she’s waiting for her daily brush. The moggie has to sit in the centre of the seat, while I’m seated on her right side. If I sit on her left, she refuses to settle and won’t snuggle. To appease the situation, I get-up sit where I’ meant to and she’s happy.
This past summer has been particularly uncomfortable, especially with weeks of humidity. Usually, while I’m watching T.V. at night Squeaky jumps-up on the couch and lounges across my lap. I’ll then place a cushion to support her head.
During these hot nights she’ll stretch out on the rug for awhile, but something inside her little brain makes her eventually jump into my lap. It’s stifling and I’m sweating within seconds, so I push her off. It’s fine cuddling up with a furball in winter, but not in summer.
Squeaky does have her own makeshift bed – a wool felted mat and shrunken, mohair knee-rug placed over the seat of an armchair. On hot nights she prefers to sleep on my bed, but away from me until it’s morning, then the torturing begins.
She expects food, fresh water and the back door opened. I know I’m a sucker and that Squeaky has trained me well, but really, I don’t mind.
The Human.
Smudge's Place 