I've always stared at the Woman, trying to get her to do my bidding. Historically, I've stared at her from a distance: on the floor, on another chair, while lounging on the storage thingy that lives under the window that she keeps saying she wants to get rid of but still hasn't. In order for distance staring to be effective, however, I have to meow at her every now and then to make sure she knows I'm still there.
Lately, I've been sitting on the arm of her chair while she plays online or as she works. Sometimes she's watching TV or reading. It doesn't matter what she's doing, just that she's in the comfy chair in the living room and trying to concentrate on something.
So I jump up, and she always asks me what I want. Head rubs? A lap?
I don't answer.
I just stare.
She goes back to whatever she's been doing; if she's not online or working, she'll pat her lap and tell me I'm welcome to it, but nine times out of ten she's not wearing pants and her lap is too squishy without pants, so I stay where I am, and stare.
After a few minutes, she tends to look up, then at the clock, and then informs me of how long it is until Food O'clock. It's pointless; my stomach knows exactly what time it is. I don't need to be told.
So I sit.
And stare.
She goes back to whatever she's doing, until she feels the creepiness of unblinking eyes on her, and then asks what I want.
I don't answer.
Inevitably, she gets fed up with it and sets aside whatever she's doing and gets up, heads to the kitchen, and calls out that I might as well follow. She's getting a treat for us, or giving us lunch early. Sometimes she just picks me up and sets me on the floor, telling me to just go be a cat somewhere else.
I wait a minute or two, and jump back up.
She's getting very good at ignoring me, though. Last night I sat on the arm of her chair for an hour and a half, staring, waiting, wondering how long it would take her to break.
She rubbed my head every now and then. She offered a lap. But then she went back to reading or writing, and didn't tell me how much longer it was until dinner.
So I moved closer.
I didn't meow.
I just waited.
I picked something on her face to hone in on, knowing that sooner or later she would realize I wasn't simply staring at her, but staring at something.
After a while, she glanced at me, then rubbed her chin and mumbled that she knows she needs to shave. Menopause is a bitch, and she can grow a goatee if she leaves it alone.
Right at 90 minutes, she sighed and said, "Fine. All right. I'll get up and feed you."
I wasn't even hungry, but that wasn't the point.
The point was winning, and I totally did.
So I jump up, and she always asks me what I want. Head rubs? A lap?
I don't answer.
I just stare.
She goes back to whatever she's been doing; if she's not online or working, she'll pat her lap and tell me I'm welcome to it, but nine times out of ten she's not wearing pants and her lap is too squishy without pants, so I stay where I am, and stare.
After a few minutes, she tends to look up, then at the clock, and then informs me of how long it is until Food O'clock. It's pointless; my stomach knows exactly what time it is. I don't need to be told.
So I sit.
And stare.
She goes back to whatever she's doing, until she feels the creepiness of unblinking eyes on her, and then asks what I want.
I don't answer.
Inevitably, she gets fed up with it and sets aside whatever she's doing and gets up, heads to the kitchen, and calls out that I might as well follow. She's getting a treat for us, or giving us lunch early. Sometimes she just picks me up and sets me on the floor, telling me to just go be a cat somewhere else.
I wait a minute or two, and jump back up.
She's getting very good at ignoring me, though. Last night I sat on the arm of her chair for an hour and a half, staring, waiting, wondering how long it would take her to break.
She rubbed my head every now and then. She offered a lap. But then she went back to reading or writing, and didn't tell me how much longer it was until dinner.
I didn't meow.
I just waited.
I picked something on her face to hone in on, knowing that sooner or later she would realize I wasn't simply staring at her, but staring at something.
After a while, she glanced at me, then rubbed her chin and mumbled that she knows she needs to shave. Menopause is a bitch, and she can grow a goatee if she leaves it alone.
Right at 90 minutes, she sighed and said, "Fine. All right. I'll get up and feed you."
I wasn't even hungry, but that wasn't the point.
The point was winning, and I totally did.