Every morning, without fail, these two little boys find me on the walk to school, and they ask me for a “cat story.” They know I have three cats. Don't worry: I heard that you don't become a crazy cat woman until you have 5 cats. I'm well below this threshold. And don't worry: this won't become a blog about my cats.
So the boys wanted a cat story. Here goes:
My little black and white cat likes us to run around the house, dragging a yellow rope she found somewhere. Recently, she's learned to find the rope, grasp it in her mouth, and carry it to wherever we are sitting (this is a big deal for a little cat). If I'm busy, she finds anyone who'll help. She brings the rope, drops it by a foot, and then meows and meows for somebody, anybody, to drag this rope for her to chase.
You'd think this would annoy me; it delights me instead.
I recognized something about this little kitty. Cats are supremely independent, supremely aloof. And yet, what does this cat do? Learning to carry a rope to me, dropping it like that, needing me so much, is cat flair. She temporarily suspends her superior, I-don't-need-you, cattitude. She knows she can't make the rope jiggle and race across the living room. This cat knows her limitations. This somehow doesn't bother her. That's the flair.
Why is it so hard to admit when I have a need that only another person can meet? I'm the type of girl who would find the rope, even drag it someplace in hopes of playing, and figure out a way to make it move myself. What's with this attitude of independence? When was the last time I admitted to somebody that I needed them, really needed them?
Living with flair means acknowledging my limitations and approaching others for help. We think it annoys people, but more often than not, it delights.
Running around my house with an old yellow rope and a cat on my heels makes me smile. It's a gift to me, not her.