I Load Sixteen Pounds, and What Do I Get?

Tungsten used to be my lap-cat. She enjoyed curling up and snoozing. The orange one was certainly no trouble and felt very light. Her six, and in later days, five pounds, made it seem as if there was no one on my lap at all.

After she died, I didn’t have a lap-cat. I still don’t, but now and then, some of the beasts who still live with me decide to try it. Josie rarely, Renn now and then, Cammie less than Josie. The one who most often settles down for a slumber on my legs is Tucker. He doesn’t do it every day, and when he does, he doesn’t always stay for long. Sometimes, he does.

I find a cat lying on a person’s lap to be a sure sign of comfort - on the cat’s part - with, and affection for, the human. There are many other places a cat can lie that are more comfortable. Even a carpeted floor would be less undulating than a lap. It must be like resting on an assembly line made of rollers. Even taking into account the feline capacity for nearly boneless contortion, the human lap cannot be the most convenient of locations. And yet, there they lie, sometimes falling into a deep sleep, they are that much at ease.

So I will put up with Tucker’s fourteen pounds (I know what amount is in the title; it made the reference to the song better) and be glad of it. He’s telling me that he likes me, and likes being near me; that I make him feel good and secure. For that, I’d load sixteen tons.