I've mentioned before that I have a cat named Cinco. Her name is Cinco because I got her on the fifth of May. I never call her that. Long, long ago, her name got shortened and bastardized to Stink, and Stink stuck.
Stink tries to pass as an elegant dame, but the truth is, she's a bit of a nutcase. (Probably the reason we get on so well.)
Yesterday was Tuesday. Tuesday is dog class day. After spending an hour and a half focusing solely on Prada, I was trying to devote some one-on-one time to Stink. I petted her for just a few minutes before she decided she didn't want my hands on her body. She sniffed in disgust and flounced off the couch to the floor by my feet.
Most people have a footstool or coffee table in front of their couch to rest their feet on. Not me: I've got pedals. Like for a bike. I generally pedal when I'm watching TV or a movie, because that way I can talk myself into believing that eating an entire can of Pringles at the same time is okay--I probably break even, anyway.
Well, I was pedaling now, and Stink stared at my feet in that creepy way cats have that make you wonder if you're going to wake up with a limb half-eaten. Then she very deliberately sat in such a way that every rotation of the pedals had my foot stroking her back. I shifted the pedals, but she repositioned herself. I shrugged, mocked her, and continued--and Stink stayed put for the next six chapters of the book I was reading.
Foot fetish? Freaky.
(True: I have no idea if the term "stubble kittens," referring to barn cat litters born in the fall--when the corn is just stubble--is used anywhere but our particular corner of rural Wisconsin.)