For Mother's Day, Pat's son and daughter-in-law arranged to pick us up and take us to dinner.  Shortly before we were supposed to leave, Pat and I went upstairs to change clothes and get ready.

   After cleaning up, I opened the bathroom door, and sitting outside in the hall was Caitie-Belle. She began to meow at me, but she didn't have to tell me why she was there.  I knew she wanted to sit on my lap and have me brush her fur.  Normally, I don't mind complying when she informs me she wants her "brushie".  But, little cat, this isn't a good time, you know?

   No, she didn't know, or she didn't want to know, because she jumped on my lap and lay down.  I began to slowly brush her, and she closed her eyes and started purring.

   Pat came by, looked in the door and saw Caitie-Belle on my lap.  She understands I'm a slave to my little calico, and she asked me whether I was going to be ready in time.  I assured her I would, and she went back into the master bedroom to get her shoes.

   But how was I going to do it?  Thinking hard, I remembered that when Caitie-Belle decides she's had enough, she hops over to the vanity, then to the floor.  (Why she doesn't go straight to the floor, you ask?  I don't know, but some believe she wants to check her appearance in the mirror.)

   I've learned that if I hold my arm in the space between my lap and the vanity, she'll use it was a stepping stone instead of jumping over the gap.  Maybe she'd do it if I suggested it now.  Several more gentle strokes with the soft brush, then I switched the brush to my left hand and lifted my right arm into position.  It worked -- Caitie-Belle got up and walked across my arm-bridge to the vanity, then down to the floor and out of the bathroom.

   On the way to the car, Pat said, "You've created a monster."

   "No, not a monster," I smiled.  "I'm just allowing her to be a Good Cat."