Macho no more

Alas, I always thought "Machismo" was my middle name, but Cuddles apparently believes it's an assumed name, and not a particularly appropriate one. This morning, in my power wheelchair, pushing the walker before me, I made my way to the bedroom to put the wheelchair on the charger. I turned into the hallway, and there was Cuddles lying on the floor. She wasn't sleeping, mind you; she wasn't even, as Mother used to say, "resting her eyes;" she was just lying there, studying the decor and considering possible changes.

She watched the wheelchair, the walker and me approach and remained stubbornly, defiantly, absolutely still. The gap between us narrowed to a foot, to six inches, to an inch, and then the walker pressed gently against her midsection. Cuddles got to her feet, slowly, of course, and stretched. Putting her chin to the floor and extending her forelegs, she proudly raised her rump to let me know I was being just a little inconsiderate. Then she arched her back before taking a step or two toward the bedroom door. I inched forward in the wheelchair; Cuddles stretched some more, again with her backside pointed directly at me when she lifted her butt. She took a couple more baby steps and went through her stretching routine one more time before allowing me into the bedroom.

Perhaps Cuddles, with the keen intuitive sense that animals have, has determined that I am not the man I and one or two other easily fooled people believe I am. But, if she's so darn smart, she'd realize that I am clumsy, klutzy and someone whom it isn't safe to be near when I'm in motion. For the innocent bystander, stumbling, bumbling ineptitude is just as dangerous as testosterone driven rage. Cuddles will realize this some day, and she'll stand aside when I approach. Even if she snickers as I pass, cats are so discrete about such things, I won't notice and will assume she fears and respects me. She'll be safer, and I'll continue to think of myself as one of the world's more manly men - a good deal for both of us.


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