Pushing the envelope

Twenty-three minutes to post, a cat in my lap bent on playing with the touch pad, several ideas in my head, none of which can be explored in twenty-two minutes. An unpredictable wireless connection.

A cat on my lap licking my wrist as I type. I don’t like to be licked as I type.

My evening critique group has had an online conversation today about typing vs. keyboarding. Are papers still typewritten? Are papers still papers, for that matter. Do we come to the page or to the screen?

The cat has stopped licking my wrist and has hidden his face against my arm. He’s stretching his foreleg to pat the mouse, which lies on the arm of the recliner.

There’s another one: mouse.

Forty years ago, the sentence, The cat is patting the mouse, which lies on the arm of the recliner, would have sparked an image entirely different from the one it creates today.

Someday, perhaps, cat will have a meaning in the cyber world. Perhaps it already does.

He’s now stretching both forelegs toward the mouse and using his elbow to control the touch pad. The cursor jumps around. Boxes pop up, offering me the opportunity to do things I have no intention of doing. I have to take a hand off the keys to move the box.

He has shifted. Now he’s resting his head on my right hand. His left foreleg rests on my left hand. A minute ago he tried to rest his chin on my thumbs.

He’s shifted again. There are two forelegs on my left hand. His head is still on my right hand, but his whiskers are sticking straight up. Another stretch. Another shift. His head is up again.

Another shift. A paw on the keys.

I took the time to click Save.

The purring vibrates the chair. I hope it doesn’t dislodge something the laptop needs to keep going.

Two minutes. No time for a photograph. Time to post.