Monday, November 12, 2012
When my parents moved to assisted living, we adopted their cat, Frankie. He's a beautiful white Turkish Angora with pink ears and nose and ice blue eyes. His fur is so soft that it's a delight to pat. He purrs loudly to himself and sits on our bed most of the day, until evening. Then, around 10, he stalks downstairs to shoo us up to bed. When we get there, he merows until I lie down. Then he gingerly pads his way up my torso and plops on my chest, folding his front feet under. He sits there purring contentedly until I laugh too much at what Steve says thereby jiggling him or until I turn on my c-pap machine which blows air onto him. It's a routine we've followed since he's moved in. It comforts me. It also takes me back to my past. It reminds me of my cat growing up who would do a similar thing to my Grandma on the couch while she was taking her afternoon nap. I guess that being a cat pillow skips a generation.