What the cat knows

The cat prefers the chair I am using. There are two others in the same room, one with a cushion she liked very much until I put it there. If I stand up to make tea, she takes my place before I reach the door.

I used to interpret this as affection. It may be warmth. It may be that the chair is in a better position. I have never found a way of asking without supplying the answer myself.

She has lived with me for years and coped with the move more decisively than I did. At first she hid behind a packing box. Then she inspected every room, rejected the expensive new bed and settled on a folded jumper. For several weeks I worked around her chosen places as though she had submitted a plan I was required to follow.

By winter she had found a patch of morning sun in the sitting room. She moves with it, one chair at a time. On cloudy days she stays on the first chair, apparently unconvinced that the arrangement has changed. I know this because I have watched her while avoiding work of my own.

People say cats are good at doing nothing. Ours is often busy with matters I cannot see: a sound behind a cupboard, a bird beyond the window, a particular corner of the rug. She can also spend a long time staring at a wall. I try not to turn either activity into advice about how I should live.

What she has taught me is mostly practical. Don't leave thread on the table. Check a chair before sitting down. A shut door will become the most interesting door in the house. If I intend to finish a paragraph, I should probably feed her before starting it.

Yesterday she climbed onto the desk and rested one paw on the keyboard. I moved it. She put it back. We repeated this until a line of letters appeared at the end of my sentence. I deleted the line, saved the draft and went downstairs.

She followed me halfway, then returned to the chair. It was still warm.