Cats are psychic. They must be. it’s their gift. They know the absolute worst time for anything.
You’ve just settled down with a book, your crocheting or something that requires your attention. Somehow your cat who was dead asleep three rooms away knows this and is magically in your lap, on your stuff and in the way.
The cat has been ignoring you for the entire two hours you’ve been sitting down watching the television. Now you need to get up to pee. Instantly the cat is there, not only getting into your lap, but promptly getting into the cutest possible love pose to prevent you from leaving.
You’re so happy that your cat never seems to have hairballs. It’s so nice. Until someone comes over. Suddenly the cat is in the middle of the floor, right in front of company, hacking, gagging, wheezing and upchucking the most lovely, spittle-soaked hair goodie it’s little guts can produce. Nice!
Cats are psychic. They’ve just got to be.
Image: © Briana Blair, Jynx on my lap while I’m trying to type