If you are owned by a cat (or cats), you already know what I mean. There is that one perfect moment when your personal universe is in perfect balance--the right book, the right chair (or couch, or pillow on the floor), the right cat(s), the beverage of choice. The weather is conducive to your personal idea of perfection, whether warm and sunny or cold and blustery. No telephones ring, no children or housemates clamour for attention. Existence settles around you with a contented sigh. Those moments aren't nearly as frequent for me as I would like, but I can be content with half-perfect, or even a quarter or an eighth at times.
Most recently, the little black cat, Midnite, has been joining me as I pore over back issues of Archaeology magazine. Sometime soon, that will lead to a desire to revisit Elizabeth Peters' Amelia Peabody series.
Midnite is a good book cat most of the time. Of course, we have to begin the process her way if I'm to have any peace. That involves a great deal of kneading in different spots, a bit of grooming during which I have to discourage her from grooming my chin and my hair, and then finally, settling into a warm ball of purrs. If I chuckle over something, or decide to erad aloud to her, she's a most receptive audience; soft chirps, an eye cracked open the tiniest bit, and the swivel of an ear let me know she's paying attention. Of course, something inevitably catches her attention after an hour or so, and she will stretch, jump down and hurry off on important Cat Business--which frequently leads to the end of my peaceful times as well, when I hurry to discover what has been knocked over or broken, or who is uttering bloodcurdling screeches form the far end of the house. After all, we would not want too much of paradise at once.
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