cleo

Cleo is my adorable cat. She will sleep on my lap for hours on end, so relaxed that I can scoot out from under her to grab lunch or go to the bathroom, and she won’t be even the least bit disturbed by it. She hates my singing. It seems to be the only thing in her charmed little life that causes her even the least bit of stress. It doesn’t bother her when other people sing – students, recordings, whatever – she’ll just ignore them and go back to sleep. But should I so much as open my mouth to sing a note, it sends her in to a frenzy. It doesn’t matter, actually, whether it’s me singing live or a recording of my voice. Either way, she hates it.

Actually, I think she might think that the strange sounds emitting from my mouth are a cry for help or some alien being inhabiting my body. If I leave the door to my office open, she will come racing in with this panicked look in her eyes. If I’m sitting at the piano, which I often am, she will hop up in to my lap, sit up, and put a paw over my lips, as if to say, “Stop that, for the love of God!” When that fails, or if I happen to be standing and singing, she will slowly circle my body before deciding that the best way to deal with the situation is to attack my feet. Now, Cleo is not a vicious cat. Her idea of attacking something is to nibble lightly at it. Still, she’s incredibly persistent. Needless to say, I mostly practice now with the office door closed. She meows outside for about 10 minutes and then heads back to the living room to lounge in the sunlight streaming through the window. Rough life.