No hurt felines

Cats seem to have mastered the art of being content anywhere they find themselves. At the moment, J's cat, K, is stretched out atop the set of four fluorescent lights that I put together as an antidote to J's Seasonal Affective Disorder. Light therapy is common now for this particular problem. But for K it's not the light but rather the heat that matters. It's a considerable leap of faith and feet for a cat of uncertain age to jump the 50 inches from the floor directly onto the top edge of this contraption, but her motivation is undeniable.

Owing to my allergies to all things feline, I had to mount a screen door on the bedroom door frame, to act as a kind of airlock for when we try to get into the bedroom without a cat. Occasionally K or D or B or T will manage to time the entry so well that we find one of them inside the room even though we did not see it happen.

The only reliable method I've found to dislodge a wayward cat from a forbidden venue is to capitalize on her fear. It takes considerable effort, but always works. I head for the cleaning closet across the hall and drag out the vacuum cleaner. In the past, I've had to plug it in and actually start it up, but thanks to the Pavlov effect, the illegal immigrant will now generally seek the nearest exit seconds after hearing the closet door open.

The other intriguing phenomenon is what we call "milling". The cats will sit anywhere they feel good about it, but the second J gets up to head for the bathroom or the kitchen, the tails trans-moggy-fy into question marks and out into the slipstream their owners glide, drawn, no doubt, by the possibility of food or treats.

During meal preparation, the level of milling usually doubles. At the point where we actually sit down to eat, K will occupy the nearest vacant chair, while D will sharpen his claws in preparation for the begging act to follow.

The meal proceeds calmly for a time, when suddenly J lets out a surprised yelp. D has made his point(s) on the side of her legs. K, meanwhile, is much more ladylike in her approach. She merely leans toward the plate that interests her most. When she believes you are not watching, two front feet will delicately ascend to the tabletop. At this point, J barks "Hey!" at her, and she withdraws, knowing full well that a pacifying portion of the evening's entree will be forthcoming.

It is a ritual not to be denied. What have I learned from being allowed to live with cats? Life is best devoted to comfort and leisure, for someone will take care of you if you let them.