She cannot resist the allure of freshly-laundered clothes, all warm and staticky. Not only are they pleasant to lay upon and snuggle under, but covering them in hair (which adheres beautifully to the static) is particularly satisfying when they are so newly pristine.
When I sort the laundry for putting away, I toss the socks into a pile on the far side of the bed, from whence they get scooped into their proper receptacle (which is an old plastic mail bin from the post office that has this printed on it: "WARNING; Maximum penalty for theft or misuse of postal property $1,000 fine and 3 years imprisonment (18USC 1707)". We live dangerously.).
When the Cat materializes, I attempt to shoo her away from the pile of clean clothes. Sullenly, she flops down onto the far side of the bed, right smack in the middle of the sock-tossing area.
Thus begins what has become a beloved ritual in our home.
I begin sorting the laundry and tossing the socks at her. Or, more accurately- on her.She mrowrs and complains (as she is want to do) but she doesn't bother to dodge or shake them off. Sometimes she lays placidly as the pile swells to envelop her. Sometimes she wanders around the bed with socks draped over her and trailing behind.
It's become a game to try to toss them so they line up along her back, or cover every remaining visible bit of her. I've gotten pretty good at it.
I find her willingness to be pelted and buried in clean socks hilarious (and oddly endearing).
In fact, I have come to enjoy putting the laundry away with her assistance, and I am saddened on the rare occasions when she does not show up to help. I'll actually try to find her and call her in to assist.
It's just not the same without her.
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