Them darn cats

We all have things happen to us which we simply do not understand. For me, a few such things have happened over the last few days.

I was visiting my son and his family this past weekend. Out of the blue their cat Mika, who spends most of her days hiding from their dog, decided I was her best friend forever. Each time I sat down (whenever the dog wasn't nearby anyway) she would rush from her hiding spot and leap onto my lap. I mean she would come out in no time flat. I would pet her until she tired of it; even then she would simply settle into my lap and purr. At least until Gaspode, the dog, appeared. Then she was off to burrow somewhere where he couldn't get near her.

Now Luna, my son in law's cat who is living with us along with my daughter and said son in law, has decided that she must be in my lap whenever I deign to sit down. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to type out a blog post with a tabby across your lap? Yes, I'm managing it, but still.

The thing is I'm really not a pet person. I like pets along the lines of jokes about grandchildren: spend a little time with them then send them home (all right, I do like my grandchild a bit better than pets). Why Mika and Luna have decided I'm all that is puzzling. Oh, I try to treat pets well, but why I apparently put out an aura of adoring them escapes me.

I'm sure it will pass. Not all of my admirers adore me for eternity. And I don't know why that is either.

Granddads and smartphone games

Temple Run. If you haven't heard of it, haven't yet got the fever, it's a game you can play on your smartphone. And it's addicting: I can blame my granddaughter for that.

One day while she was visiting she asked, "Grandpappy (yes, Grandpappy; I chose it myself, it's unique) can I borrow your phone?" So I lent it to her and she helped me set up an online account with Apple or somebody; I haven't accessed it since so I really don't remember. She then downloads Temple Run and shows me how to play. Then she laughs at how inept I am at the game.

I'll show her, I thought. Between that visit and her next, I played that game all the time. I played until the battery died on my phone. I gathered coins and bonus points and leveled up several times. I upgraded the game with the coins I had won. I kept playing until the day came that I was in a zone. I ran and ran through that temple, missing nary a turn nor a jump, outrunning the ape like creatures which guard whatever that temple is or is supposed to be, and went farther than even I had imagined I could play. When that particular game was over, to my amazement and deep pride I had scored Three Million Seven Hundred Thousand points. I write it that way because it sounds better than 3,700,000.

I could hardly wait for my granddaughter's next visit, when I would have her in awe with this feat of smartphone derring-do. After her and her family had unpacked, she went and plopped down on the living room couch. "Ahem," I coughed, then announced, "I scored 3.7 million points on Temple Run."

"I don't play Temple Run anymore Grandpappy. It's boring." She said that with her eyes glued to whatever game she was playing then.

I visibly deflated. When you can't impress your grandchildren, who can you impress?