The Claws of Change

My cat is 18 years old.  He reminds me of a well-loved stuffed animal that’s been dragged around by its tail for an entire childhood.  His hair’s all crappy, a couple of his teeth have gone missing, he’s gray, boney, confused, crabby and his breath….it’s the breath of a thousand dumpsters rotting in the sun, able to stop conversations in mid sentence with a single yawn. “Oh, dude!  What’s he been chewing on, feet?”

But I love him. Even though in his old age he’s gotten increasingly more demanding.  This morning as I worked at my desk, he sat looking up at me, shifting his glare back and forth from my eyes to my empty lap. Indignant. Yowling. Not having it.

So I bend down to pick him up and what does he do?  He drills his claws into the carpet so I literally have to rip him away to put him in my lap.

What the hell? There’s a place he wants to get to, but the second the opportunity presents itself he hunkers down and refuses to move, clinging to his spot as if as the change will surely cause him to perish.

Remind you of anyone you know?