My life has settled back into a routine. There is a routine for the week, to keep me on track. Decisions about this column have become part of the weekend routine. Atticus may be smarter than we realize, or he just senses when to capitalize on an opportunity to receive attention.
This past weekend as I attempted to decide what to write, he found a way to get my attention each time this thought came into my mind. He flopped down on my feet or hoisted his large body into the chair where I sat, demanding my time and attention. This may have been his way of saying that he felt that Atticus was the best subject for this week’s column.
Atticus seems to operate under the idea that the world was designed for him. There were things that needed to be done before his arrival so that he could live in comfort. The apartment we live in was built specifically for his arrival in this world. The central heat and air unit was created and placed there for his comfort. His brand of cat food and kitty treats were created for his enjoyment. The list is endless.
Atticus was named for a character in my favorite book, To Kill A Mockingbird. The character in the book was wise; I had hoped that my Atticus would be the same way. The character thought about others. My Atticus thinks about himself, as a matter of fact he is enamored with himself. My Atticus has been caught gazing at himself in the mirror numerous times.
Atticus may not be as selfish as we think. Maybe his goal was to coax me into stopping for a few moments. He understands the importance of rest. Did he want me to understand this idea as well? Did he want me to rest? Was he concerned about someone other than himself?
No, more than likely that was not the case. He wanted to be held and couldn’t care less about what I needed to do. He wanted admiration and attention. He wanted extra cat treats. He wanted control of the situation.
Why does he appear to sit and meditate? Perhaps he is thinking about the things he has taken and where he has hidden them. Maybe he is planning to pilfer my purse again. Maybe I will never know and that gives Atticus satisfaction.