As Benjamin Franklin* once said, “Queen Elizabeth** was right when she said that the laundry never stops.”
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I pulled a armload of clean laundry out of the dryer and carefully walked over to the couch to dump it in a pile. Two more trips emptied it, and I transferred the damp towels from the washer to the dryer. After checking to make sure the dryer was cat-free (I’m always convinced he’s going to slip in there when I’m not paying attention despite the fact that he’s never once shown any interest in doing so) I closed it and started it up. Satisfied that chore was well on it’s way to completion, I gave the dryer a little pat and turned to head to the couch where the now clean and dry pile of clothes waited.
I walked around the couch to sit in the space I had left for myself and stopped. Freddie was sitting on top of my clean clothes pile.
I put my hands on my hips. “What are you doing?” I asked.
He gave me an innocent look, then slowly laid himself down, never breaking eye contact. “What?”
“That’s my laundry. I need to fold it.”
“I’m not stopping you,” he said, then started to delicately lick one paw.
“Yes, you are! You’re in the way!”
I reached down and started to shove him off the pile. He nipped my hand. “Hey!”
“Hey yourself,” he shot back. “I’ve made my bed here. Go find your own.”
“I’m not trying to sleep here — “
“Good, because I’ve claimed it.”
“— I’m trying to finish my laundry!”
He rolled over onto his side, then curled up and tucked his head under, giving me his chin. I sighed and sat down, deciding to fold what I could around him and leave the big fight for last. He’s a cat, I told myself, I can move him when I need to.
“Do you mind not putting your hair all over my clean black pants?”
“The black pants are the best to lay on!”
I laughed a little and started folding the clothes he wasn’t on top of.
After a few minutes I had a pile of neatly folded clothes and a another pile of clothes wadded up and collecting fur under a cat butt. I eyed him, plotting my strategy.
As if sensing my attention on him, he curled up into an even tighter ball.
“Freddie,” I said.
He ignored me.
“Freddie.”
He blinded up at me. “What now?”
“I need you to move.”
We started at each other for a beat and then he said simply, “no.”
I frowned at him, then grabbed the leg of the black pants under him and tugged.
He jumped up. “HEY!”
“Hey yourself,” I said, “I need to get this put away before you get so much hair on it I have to rewash it!”
His face turned sad. “You don’t want to remember me when you are at work?” he asked, forlorn.
“I don’t need fur all over my pants to remember you,” I told him.
He thought about that while I brushed as much hair off my pants as I could before folding them and adding them to the pile. I turned back to select something else and saw him rolling around on a black t-shirt. “Cut that out!” I cried.
He stopped and looked up at me. “It smells good,” he said, then went back to rolling.
“Because it’s clean!” I told him, grabbing the shirt and yanking.
He rolled up onto his feet and watched as I shook the shirt out and quickly folded it. His former sleeping pile was now just a few stray socks.
He yawned, then walked over to me, gave me a quick full-body rub, then hopped off the couch and sauntered away. I turned to the socks and a quick count gave me an odd number. I swore under my breath. “Did you eat one of my socks?” I called after him.
He didn’t dignify that with a response.
*Benjamin Franklin was a smart guy, so I assume he must have made this observation at some point.
**Okay, fine, I’m sure Queen Elizabeth never did laundry. But if she had, she would have been just as annoyed by it as I am.
(edited at 11:15am to change duplicate picture. Second week in a row I’ve done that!)
(edit number 2 at 1:18pm. Lord, I’m bad at this! Enjoy the meme I meant to post, dammit.)