The second day I arrived at my pets’ house, I spotted the reading chair that would become my own throne — soft, with a slight rocking sway.
My pets have all abdicated my throne to me, adding other places to recline around it. It is my chair — my place in the household.
Sure, it’s needed a few extra sheets and a cotton comforter over the years to help alleviate pressure on my knees … but lying on my throne is like floating in a cloud.
I can lie in it all day, observing the crazy antics of the Two Leggers — racing in and out, in and out … a coffee in one hand, one of those obnoxiously loud and vibrating squawk box “phones” in the other.
I can doze off as my pets stare at the moving picture box, transfixed by its flickering images and all-too-realistic sounds (my word, if I get spooked by one more suddenly-appearing-and-barking Canine, I’m going to smack someone with my food bowl).
And I can painlessly dream of my perhaps slightly misspent youth, spent chasing tail (literally) and eating, chewing, and nibbling on everything in sight.
My pets have all abdicated my throne to me, adding other places to recline around it. It is my chair — my place in the household. They respect that.
Recognizing that respect feels good. Because, I gotta say, when they start in with the baby talk, I wonder …