Neutron Star Fred

My younger cat, Fred, is not so imposing to look at. She’s not one of those cats that can swagger into the room and raise eyebrows with her sheer bulk. Nor is she one of those particularly muscular felines that gives the impression of wearing the tabby equivalent of football shoulder pads. No, she’s really an unassuming cat of ordinary proportions. Quite compact, actually. On the tiny side.

But holy crap. What Fred doesn’t have in volume, she makes up in mass. She’s not fat. She’s dense. Fred is the freakin’ neutron star of cats. A teaspoon of Fred weighs more than all of the solar system’s inner planetary system together.

She’s not a delicate cat, either. She doesn’t pad softly into a room; she chooses a spot from the floor above or below, gives herself a good running start, and then thunders through the house until she skids to stop in front of me, leaving visible smoking skid marks where her paws have been. Nights, she won’t simply hop onto the bed to sleep with me. She’ll wait until the moment I’ve completely gone underneath and am breathing slowly and heavily, and then she’ll pound up the stairs, catapult herself up into a broad arc, then land so heavily on the mattress that she throws me, the sheets, and the pillows high into the air—giving me a minor heart attack in the process.

Fred’s a sweetheart. But Jesus, is she ever heavy.

Lately she’s been extra-snuggly at night, forsaking her usual spot at the foot of the bed for the warmer climes in the curves of my body. True to form, though, she doesn’t inch up and nestle in a spot next to my slumbering chest, or sweetly nestle in the nook created by the back of my legs. No, she announces her intention by standing, shuffling up to my face and staring in it, tickling it with her whiskers until I groggily awake and pet her. And then she’ll stalk over to the place immediately next to my body at which she intends to sleep, pause, and topple over, throwing her entire considerable weight on that one spot.

Seriously, it’s like being in the wrong place when someone tips a cow. I’ve got actual bruises.

It’s still mostly cool enough in Michigan that she seeks me out for warmth during the daytime. It’s comforting to have a cat on my lap while I’m working, and she’s a fairly considerate lapmate who will either slumber quietly or lay still while she watches the squirrels through the back door of the den. After a while, though, the pressure of her body will start to put my arm to sleep. “Fred,” I’ll say. “I kind of need you to move.”

At the sound of her name, she’ll up up at me, squinch her eyes, and chirrup. She still has a little kitten voice, a high-pitched, girlish way of mewing that turn the hardest heart into marshmallow. “Sweetie,” I’ll tell her. “Please move.”

Again, she’ll meow sweetly, and lay her head upon my forearm. “I can’t feel my fingers,” I’ll complain, and she’ll roll onto her back and invite me to blow on her furry tummy. Or, if I attempt to shift her onto the blanket next to me, she’ll let out a series of squeaky protests so pathetic and sad that recordings of them would prompt the ASPCA to write me up on charges of animal cruelty.

She’s not a kitten anymore, though. And I need to feel the nerve endings in my fingertips, thank you.