Watching my sweet geriatric cat spend the day sleeping, first near the heat vent in the morning, on her pink blanket, or – when the capricious PNW weather cooperates – staking out a patch of sunny carpet, I find myself agreeing with her approach to life. She has a game of “catch the snake” (aka long shoelace) each evening complete with skulking and mad dashes after the prey. She keeps us company in the evenings when we watch TV, or when we read. (The latter is her preference since it means that I sit in the recliner and provide more lap space.) She supervises meal preparation by sitting in the geographical center of the kitchen and offering occasional commentary.
So there’s daily exercise, community activities, conversation, food, and rest. Add an occasional snack at the pot of catnip on the window sill, and it sounds about perfect to me. No one could accuse her of being a type A personality nor of having a stress-filled life. In true feline style, she has fashioned her world to her liking without harming a single other creature. Can anyone tell me what’s wrong with that?