As I sit here staring at a blank page, I can’t help but wish I was a cat. Not a lion or jaguar, nothing exotic or ferocious. Just a house cat.
The yearning for a life of leisure.
When I look over the top of my laptop, I have a clear view of a big fluffy black and white cat as she lays upside down in a chair near the window. She’s asleep for now, and when she wakes, she’ll groom herself, wander into the kitchen for a snack, and then find someone in the house to love on her. She might chase a toy across the floor or sit in the window and watch birds flit around in the tree just outside.
Behind my office chair, a grey tabby, the newest addition to our family, is stretched out on her own blanket on the sofa. She’s four months old and shifts between dead asleep to wild and crazy jungle cat in an instant. After a hard day (or twenty minutes) of killing a cloth mouse or her favorite hockey puck in the form of a piece of dog chow, she collapses into another deep sleep.
When both are awake, the cats stalk and attack each other, zipping through the house while having fun. Their lives revolve around sleeping, eating, playing, and getting a little loving from their owners.
No mortgage payment. No grocery shopping. No taxes to pay.
Who wouldn’t want that life?
Sure, I might miss opposable thumbs and a really juicy love story now and then, but I wouldn’t miss housework or gardening. And laundry isn’t high on my list of favorite things to do, either.
If I was a house cat, no one would accuse me of being a procrastinator (which is what I’m doing now, avoiding my WIP when I should be adding words to the total).
As far as I know, there isn’t a machine to change me into a kitten when I don’t want to work. Guess that means I need to get back to the business of writing and let my cats have their naps.