If I were a cat my life would be totally different. I would be told at least 400 times a day that I am beautiful, gorgeous, exquisite, smart, amazing, and awesomely graceful … Did I mention beautiful?
I would have a dozen affectionate nicknames, like “sweet thing, sweetie pie, gorgeous thing, pumpkin, little lion, precious Lily, lily pad, and little lynx.”
I would be petted, stroked, chirped at and kissed at least another 400 times a day. I would be greeted the moment someone came in the house with an enthusiastic “Hey baby! Where are you? How was your day?”
When I left to go to the shore or the store or to go for a walk I would be told “Have a blast! Have fun! Be home soon! Just don’t shred any curtains!”
I would be cuddled all night long and I wouldn’t mind if I stepped on my own face. If that happened I would grab one of my furry paws, kiss it and admire its soft sable beauty and lethality. Then go back to sleep.
I wouldn’t be upset if I dropped something, spilled something, slopped water down my shirt (or all over the floor next my water bowl), threw up on the rug, or unraveled a spool of thread all over the hallway. I would just clean up and forget about it.
I wouldn’t be concerned with food. It would be delivered. I wouldn’t worry about work. What is that? I would sit at the screen at the open slider and chatter hungrily at the birds in the Japanese maple on the deck. I would lounge in the sun. I would stretch languorously, enjoying every centimeter of my lithesome body. I would slouch from pillow to stair, from cushion to couch, eventually ambling lazily to bed.
I would never be bored. I would never need to be entertained. And I would never doubt my gloriousness.
Jeez. Who and what would I be if I gave half of what I give to my cat to myself each day?