The day I mistook a cat for my son
I was sitting in the recliner and completely absorbed in my work on the laptop. Paul was sitting on the couch thinking of really cool ways to take over the world or whatever it is he’s thinking about when sits on the couch with his hands behind his head and a dreamy smile on his face. Nathan was playing with his toys on the floor, making his Little Nathan Noises complete with excessive amounts of drool interspersed with sputtering motorboat noises. And an occasional Baby Lion Roar here and there.
I glanced up from the laptop to make sure Nathan wasn’t doing anything crazy, like eating electrical wires or growing a second head, and then resumed letting the laptop take over my brain. I was Screen Sucked. You know what I’m talking about. When you become so engrossed in whatever it is you’re doing on the computer that you develop tunnel vision as your computer sucks your face closer and closer to the screen.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nathan slink out of the livingroom and into the kitchen- a big no-no because we don’t let him roam around unsupervised at this point.
“Paul!” I screeched. “Aren’t you going to get him? He just went into the kitchen!”
“Nathan! Kitchen!” I responded, exasperated.
“Um, no he’s not. He’s right there,” Paul said as he pointed in front of me. I detached my face from the laptop and peered around it. Nathan was sitting silently at my feet, enchanted with his toys.
“That was Andrew.” My cat. My big, fat, orange, fluffy tabby cat.
Because, you know, IT’S SUPER EASY TO MISTAKE A FLUFFY TABBY CAT FOR A BABY BOY. Just because one is furry with sharp teeth and claws and whiskers doesn’t mean he can’t be confused with a bald, pink little human when you see him from your peripheral vision.