My goals this week have been passive ones. Don't burn the house down and don't kill the cats. I've had those two scares about the former, but fortunately no close calls (yet) about the latter. They are interesting beasts, these cats. Pickle is stripes of orange, and Kate told me I wouldn't see much of her*. The loner cat that doesn't like cuddles. It was the other cat (henceforth referred to as "Other Cat" as my brain rebooted before the name was properly saved) that loved good lap time.
I beg to disagree. Pickle hearts me big time. She's in awe of me. She's in my lap right now, staring at my face in absolute adoration. "You are the Food Bringer," her gentle touches on my cheek with clawed paws say. "I worship you." Perhaps she thinks I have over powered the previous Food Bringer and she must show her submission to my reign. "To prove my love I will stay in your lap no matter what position you are in. I will attempt to curl up on your ankle and stay there while you stand up!"
I could do with a drier style of worship. Once Pickle gets good and cozy, she drools like a mo'fo'.
I have a primal gag reflex to drool. Not normal baby slobber, but thick, gelatinous gobby drool that some animals (and certain disgusting customers at both a coffee and pizza shop I worked at) can produce. This is uncontrollable and got me in trouble several times as a kid when my dad thought I was being gross by pretending to vomit when my uncle's dog would be secreting buckets of this viscous liquid.
So my Pickle cuddles are often cut short by me noticing a thick stream dangling from her face and pushing her away, quickly but gently, so as not to dislodge the slime. This doesn't discourage her. Once she decides we're going to cuddle, then cuddle we're going to, whether I like it or not. Purrengine on max she follows me around, using all manners of physics-defying manoeuvres to launch herself on any exposed bit of thigh. I'll be sitting at the computer and she'll plot a route: chair->window sill->behind the fan->on top of computer monitor->thigh. The fact that the piece of lap she lands on isn't big enough to support her mass doesn't stop her from balancing precariously, digging her claws into my flesh and trying to rub her sticky wet chin all over my face before she slips and falls to the ground.
Other Cat doesn't show himself much, but when he does he immediately flops onto his back, leaving all four paws to sag about on top of him as if they lack bones. If he's really diggin' the quality time with me he'll wedge his head between the couch cushions and thrust his ass up into the air. Nothing says I love you like exposing your rear to the world at large.
I think I'm doing pretty well with the whole "not killing the cats" thing. They may accidentally smother me with their uncontrolled squirming during a particularly good cuddle, or I may accidentally choke on the drool, but they'll get out of the incident all right.
* Gender of both cats has been assigned randomly.