Chilly Pads


It was 5° when I woke up this morning.

My cat—whose pads were cold—jumped onto my stomach and nearly burned patches of frostbite into me as she kneaded my formerly toasty body.  She’s strictly a house cat, so I deduced the kitchen linoleum must have been a tad cool—and she obviously needed a warm-up.  I was happy to oblige.

But then she took me hostage—settled against my ribs, put her paw over my paw, and wouldn’t even let me start the coffee—for two hours.  But it was 3 a.m., so I had a little time to kill.

If you’re a feline lover, you know that the cat makes the rules.  If you’re not, it’s probably because you can’t abide the cat making the rules.  I’m not here to pass judgement.


As you can see, I was finally allowed to get up and come over to the keyboard.

But first, I gave the little cutie a treat for inspiring this blog.


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