6 May 2011

Last night I walked past my office and noted that Max was curled up on my desk chair, contorted into one of those weird positions that only cats seem to find comfortable; head resting on one paw, back twisted, belly up, two other paws sticking straight out to the side and the last paw almost pointing up, but not quite.

I wondered how the hell he could sleep like that, but hey, whatever works for him.

An hour later he was still there, still in the same position.

Two hours later, as I was heading back to go to bed, he was still there. He hadn't moved. So I stood there and watched, looking to see his chest or belly rise and fall with each breath...only nothing was moving.

I waited a little longer, still nothing.

I stepped into the room, not quietly, and he didn't so much as twitch, and I could feel dread beginning to pool around me. He's ten years old, he's seriously fat, he's not breathing, this is not good.

So I decided to out my hand on his chest, hoping to feel what I couldn't see. And people, my fingers barely brushed his fur when he jumped like I had shot him; he rolled over onto his back, glaring at me, and began meowing in what I can only assume was a string of expletives regarding my parentage, my brains, and the odors surrounding me that displease him.

Oh yeah, he looked a lot more annoyed than that.

I thought about offering him some crunchy treats by way of apology, but when he was done cussing me out he stretched and rolled over facing away from me.

I only feel bad about laughing when he jumped.