Lucian and Mary Brown:
Untitled [boy sitting in woman's lap] (c. 1950)

" … just run-of-the-mill reassurance."

I have proudly possessed a string of Lap-Sitting cats. My current one, Max, finds me most mornings, drowsy and tentative, sitting and staring out the library window. He tries to hop up stealthily, but that's generally beyond his ability. He tromps around the place in those pre-dawn hours. I can hear him coming from clear across the house, for his are no mere little cat's feet. He most often enters from the upstairs window, landing at the end of the hallway with a definite thump before proceeding down the hall to the stairs, which he makes ring with each step, down into the entry hall before turning through the dining room and into the living room where he finally fails to sneak up behind me. He can still surprise me with his timing, though. He suddenly appears on the chair arm, sometimes managing to get tangled up with my arm, whereby he aborts the attempt. He'll sometimes slink away then and not return, but he often mounts a second try, landing off balance in the vicinity of my lap. He often requires a little nudge and some guidance to find a comfortable position before settling in for some serious Lap-Sitting.

I adjust my schedule for these visits, which usually seem far too brief. But on the occasion when, for whatever reason, he decides to stay for an hour, I make myself at his disposal for that time. I consider human impatience perhaps the worst vice we practice and a cat's forbearance one of humanity's greatest blessings. It would be unseemly of me even to try to move when Max is perching. Time slows while he stays. He purrs contentedly even though it's impossible for me to see how he's comfortable there. He usually lays with his head dangling over my lap's edge, lolling there next to his paws. If I tried to sleep like that, the blood would rush to my head, rendering me extremely uncomfortable. Cats must work differently than that, or at least this cat must.

I pet him, eliciting deeper purrs. I almost always find a fur clog or two, real tangles, because Max has the sort of fur that easily tangles. He usually sports something along one side or both and another alarmingly close to and beneath his tail. I can sometimes fiddle these loose, but they typically require the Furminator®, an effective implement of torture that's absolutely wizard at removing fur clogs. Their removal comes at a cost, though, since Max will not usually accept the indignity at ease. He'll flee when I yank that fur clog free, so I most often just fiddle, not wanting to hasten his exit. It's a sacred time threatened by secular grooming. Oh, he can freely groom himself, but should I intrude too intensely, our intimacy immediately ends.

I consider LapSitting evidence of underlying decency on the part of the Lap owner. A cat will not deign to visit any but the most trustworthy laps. Indeed, Molly, Max's sister, would no more sit in a lap than she would swim in the backyard pond. She lacks the trust in people to consent to sit that close. She distantly tolerates a headstroke or two while I'm feeding her. She's a fine and beautiful animal, but she's nobody's LapSitter. Max must make up for her hesitance, and he usually does. As I said, he's there most mornings, ready to extend his night's sleeping in my lap. He sometimes dreams, or sure seems to, twitching and batting at something, but he's most often like a rag doll, albeit a purring one. He contorts himself into impossible shapes with never or rarely a complaint. We inhabit personable, neutral ground. I consider what I might write about that morning while he might be plotting his approach to the birdbath later, perhaps practicing his trademark pounce in his sleep.

He eventually seems to grow tired of me, as if exhausted by the rest. I know he's basically a heat collector. He seeks the sunniest spots and, before dawn, favors my lap because it so efficiently conducts heat from me up and into his fur until he almost glows. He sometimes wants me to hold his head in the palm of my hand, fingers on his chin, to force his eyes closed. Perhaps he relives an experience he had with his mother when he and his siblings smothered her nursing. I don't know. I know this act seems so trusting, with me forcing his eyes closed and fingers cloaking his nose. I know then that I belong, a member in unusually excellent standing, whatever my other obvious shortcomings. This sort of acceptance seems a rare treasure, a taste of innocence in a world entirely too experienced for its own good. I want my world to remain this innocent, as warm and reassuring as a placid cat snoozing on my lap, whatever else might haunt the news. It's no headline story when Max climbs aboard in the wee hours, just run-of-the-mill reassurance visiting.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Grace, #PureSchmaltz