I am quite used to Rocky, the cat, leading me to the kitchen multiple times daily. Except for first thing in the morning when he is on his quest for breakfast — tuna (shudder) — his heart's desire is a dish of cat milk. He meows, twists and turns, imploring me to follow. Which I do — obediently.
Yesterday, however, he led me through to the kitchen toward the back door. I both thought and said,"No way, Buster, you're not going out." But that wasn't his intent, for I was quite baffled when he sidled into the living room with more mewing, twisting, turning and imploring.
Frankly, I was flummoxed. What did the blasted feline want now?
Cuppa speculated that he might want me to sit down, so that he could sit on my lap.
I did. He did. Much contented purring ensued.
Whenever my hand would cease its caressing, I would be reminded of Cat's expectations, by a long-suffering stare: "Hey guy, I'm still here. Let's get with the program." And I do.