I am the cat’s bitch.
Seriously. I’m in the studio, painting porcupines, and she starts wriggling around on the floor, killing the dangerous sunbeams before they breed. I ignore her. She dances around some more. I ignore her. She starts playing with a crinkly plastic bag. I ignore it. She begins sharpening her claws on my stool. I grumble, get up, scoop her up and walk three steps to the door planning to eject her forcibly from the studio.
Instead she wiggles around, puts a paw on either side of my neck, shoves her head under my chin, goes limp as a concussed dishrag and begins to purr.
Not being made of stone, I wind up wandering through the house cradling the cat, who is clinging to me like a tree-sloth and evidentally content to stay in this position indefinitely.
As soon as I sit down again, still holding the cat, she sits up, gives me an offended look–obviously I have failed in my couchly duties! then leaps down and stalks off.
One of us is obviously a total ingrate, but for the life of me, I couldn’t tell you which one.