Millie (age 15), is a pretty good-natured cat. Every so often, when she's not howling at us for attention or farting on us, someone in the house--a parent or myself--will glance at her and say, "She's a good cat." Okay, usually it's me. I'm biased. But Mom and Dad say it, too.
She's the type of cat who doesn't twitch a whisker at new additions--she was more curious than upset when I adopted Harley, for example. She has never had a problem with Mom's cats, Bella and Duchess. While she is very much the Queen, she's a benevolent dictator.
However, she is on the elderly side of the cat lifespan (how I hate to type that!), and teaching her new tricks is no easy feat. Still, for some reason, tonight I decided she ought to be able to ride around on my shoulder like a parrot.
So I perched her up there, her bottom and back feet resting against my shoulder, my hand on her side to balance her. I walked to the bathroom to look in the mirror, and had to giggle. Millie had the most bewildered look on her face, and her front feet braced against one of my breasts. It was obvious she couldn't fathom why her mom was suddenly making her ride around like this. I could almost hear her: "What's so bad about you just carrying me?!"
It only lasted a few minutes; before too long she shifted her weight a bit and went sailing ungracefully down my back, hitting the floor, only to be scooped up again with a loud exclamation of "Oh, honey!! I'm so sorry! Are you okay? Walk for me. You okay?? ...You're okay. Let me cuddle you."
After this little adventure, I decided to let her be. We cuddled on my bed for a few minutes, and there she remains, fast asleep on the soft afghan, dreaming her Millie dreams.
See? I have her so well-trained.
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