I’ve been writing for a few hours. Quietly lost in my mind.
Sparky has slept on my feet for the last hour, keeping them warm.
Suddenly, he wakes up and starts to bats around the back of my hands.
I’m sprinting. Trying to write as many words as I can in 20 minutes.
He doesn’t think I need to be writing. He thinks I should play with him. He bats at me, then turns toward my foot stretched out on the footrest of my easy chair.
He starts chewing on it!
Sparky! Leave me alone.
I push him away and continue to type words into my computer. I’m trying to get lots of words written. There are people I write with who can write twice as many words as I can in 20 minutes. I’m trying to keep up.
My foot is attacked again. Claws and teeth out.
I push him away again.
He thinks it is a game. He attacks my feet, I push him away. Sometimes he spins away backward, usually landing on his feet. He knows I will push him off, but he comes back for more.
He sits on the footrest and pokes his head beneath the blanket I’m using in an attempt to hide my feet from him. His claws poke me!
Sparky! Not now! I’m writing.
I guess attacking my feet is better than walking across my computer, pushing on keys and changing a manuscript I’m trying to prepare for publication. Nothing like odd letters showing up in the middle of the book because the cat decided he needed to walk across the keyboard.
I’ve had it. He won’t leave me alone.
“Where is that spray bottle?”
I filled a bottle with water when Sparky attacked a small grandson yesterday.
My husband picks it up and sprays the cat. Water doesn’t hurt him. It is a warning.
He stares at us.
Washes his face.
And walks away.
I’m no fun to attack when I spray him.
We’ll see if he attacks me tomorrow.