We all have our habits, little ruts into which we fall that become comfortable things we wear.  Never have I found this to be more important than with cats.  Felines, you see, are creatures of habit, masters of stability who rely on predictable patterns.  Through these routines they enjoy less stress.  Stress is a cat’s worst enemy, so I support our home’s habits insofar as I’m able.

One such habit stems from my morning customs, from brushing my teeth to shaving (on those days when I do so).  But it all starts with The Kids.

The moment I’m awake, and too often long before then, the patterns take shape.  We lie in bed and play and pet and rub and talk.  We get out of bed and play and pet and rub and talk.  Then we play and pet and rub and talk even more while I’m trying to start the day.

Once it’s time to go in the bathroom, however, I can rely on all manner of assistance.

Loki happens to enjoy his bathroom counter time with Daddy.  Others have similar desires, yes, but he’s the one I’m talking about today.

Understand there’s very little room during these moments for what Daddy wants or needs.  No, it all has to do with Loki.

Keep in mind he sometimes resists being awake even though he’s demanding that his will trump my own.

If necessary, he gleefully tosses my razor to the floor, intercepts my arm while I’m trying to brush my teeth, or stands between me and the sink so he’s not ignored.  As if!

And when I acquiesce and give him all the attention he wants in that moment, eventually he steps aside and makes himself comfortable.  He’s never far enough from the action that he can’t intrude and molest.

Amazingly, I love these habits, these ruts we share.  I know they need such episodes to feel stable and sound.  Nothing in me would deny them such comforts knowing they are happier and healthier cats because of them.

Oh, too late. . .

[Loki]

Loki received glowing yet reserved comments from the doctor this morning during his annual exam.

He has gained a tiny bit of weight, something not unexpected given his asthma diagnosis almost a year ago to the day.  With an enlarged heart and the persistent struggle for enough oxygen, his normal activity level has been curtailed severely, tempered by his own body’s inability to keep up with the devil inside.  He receives daily medication, yes, but even that cannot contain the whole of the problem.

Approaching 11 human years of age does not help.  That equates to 58 cat years.  While still active and quite the rambunctious devil, I recognize on a continual basis how tiny shavings are removed almost daily from his heretofore daring escapades.  When I’m his age, I hope to be as profoundly vigorous as he is, especially considering his health.

Overall, the veterinarian had good things to say about his condition.  His lungs sound good, although the echo of debris was evident.  His heart sounds good despite its enlarged state.  His muscle tone is quite excellent, something for which Loki has always been known, yet the slightest bit of degradation is now evident due in no small part to the steady reduction in his activity.  His temperature is perfect for a feline.

Despite the evidence of age and disease, my little soul stealer was sent home with glowing remarks and the continued warning of needed vigilance for his welfare.  Much unlike Henry before him, Loki’s true and only mentor, it’s doubtful that this god of mischief will live another decade.  But I still have hope. . .

“The problem with cats is that they get the exact same look on their faces whether they see a moth or an ax-murderer.”

— Paula Poundstone

Is Loki staring at me in disgust, in want for attention, in query of what comes next, or something else entirely?  Only I know for certain, for only I know precisely what each look, each gesture, each utterance means to such precise detail as to be unbelievable.

For you, the casual reader, I leave the question unanswered…