I am much amused at my cats. I was told that they were quite calm at the vet’s, playing together when in their cage and purring and cuddling with whomever came to take them out and care for them. They utterly charmed the staff; one young woman said she’d get a cat in a minute if she could be sure of cats as sweet as mine. So I did not think their stay had traumatized them too terribly.
Since our return home, though, they’ve very quietly and very undemandingly not let me out of their sight. It kind of crept up on me, but they are following me all over the house. If I go into the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal or soup, by the time I have the bowl on the counter and turn around to get the proposed contents, Sophia is sprawled in the middle of the kitchen floor and Tornado by the cabinet. If I take my bowl into the living room and sit down with it, by the time I’ve taken my first bite they’re resettled under the couch, looking for all the world as though they’ve been there for hours. When I went upstairs to sew last night, they were there. That’s when I realized what was going on, because I’d forgotten something downstairs, went down for it, and paused to talk to my beloved husband for a bit before going back up. Sophia had been by my sewing desk when I left, but when I started for the stairs to return, there she was at the foot. She stood there and looked at me, then mewed. It was a very clear “Mom, please make up your mind.” So I gave her a scritch and went back up, turning around to find her strolling in a minute or so later, her feline dignity forbidding her to demonstrate that my presence in any way influenced her decision on where to curl up. Of course not. Purely coincidental. That’s her story, and she’s sticking to it.