Big stretch upon seeing that I’ve perched myself on the recliner couch for my usual evening streaming. A slow saunter across the room, a slighly clumsy jump to my lap — becuase although he’s of average weight, he never quite figured out how to manipulate his center of gravity. Hence Farkle doesn’t quite land on his feet – he flops on them.
One paw on my chest, then the other. Pushing one down at a time, repeatedly, like he’s trying to turn the sides of my breastbone into pedals. Then comes the motorboat purr and predictable lines of drool.
Whether it’s a nesting instinct, a nursing fixation that has lingered with him from kitten days, or a desire to mark me as “his” — likely all of the above — this evening ritual seems as important to his sense of security as his morning and evening portions of canned food.
Some call it “making biscuits” or “baking”. Me? My brain instantly goes to my favorite musical, “Sunday in the Park with George”, and I consider renaming him Louis.
I mean he KNEADS me! I sing in my head. I mean like DOUGH, George!!
Eventually he decides he’s made the perfect nest and settles in for some head, cheek, and neck scratching — which lasts for about five minutes tops — then he lets me know all is well, I can return to whatever message I was reading on my phone or intricate plot on the TV screen, by turning around and planting himself between my legs for the duration.
It should be noted, I am not allowed to pet him when he turns around. He does not like to be touched when he can’t see what is touching him. In fact, it’s the best way to get him to jump down when I need to grab more tea or run to the bathroom during Hulu ad breaks. But that also signals the end of our snuggle time. He’s not typically the kind of cat who bounces back to your lap like a boomerang. You get one shot, and if you have to move from your position, that’s it. You’re fired.
Until tomorrow night, that is.
Oh how I love this resident weirdo.
Shot on Pixel 6 Pro.