This post is a piece of cake. I live with the master in this discipline. He is four years old and wears a chinchilla-like outer garment. Flangiprop describes the movements of my cat, Clyde, as he twists his body in unnatural directions and into “do not attempt this at home” manoeuvres. This transpires during all of his daily marathon snoozing jags. I cannot count that high, so numerous they are! There is the automatic and the manual version of Clyde flangipropping. The automatic variety is most likely dream-induced. My theory. His moves are always accompanied by cute little cartoon voice noises similar to the whining voice of Snoopy. Personally, I prefer the manual flangipropping. He chirps due to belly rubs as he lays comatose on the foot of my bed. James would have been a more accurate name for him. Bless his heart.
It is no exaggeration of the experts that cats sleep at least 18 hours per day. But during his waking hours, Clyde is also capable of putting an evil come grumpy spin on his flangipropping.
However, I cannot blame him for resembling a ninja feline from time to time. My teenage son picks Clyde up and imitates the Greta Garbo photo where she holds up a poor ol’ cat hanging by its furry armpits for the edification of the photographer’s lens. Greta Garbo is a solid reference for my son. In this reenactment Clyde looks likes he is doing chin-ups. Defensive flangipropping with a eyes conveying “don’t like!” It is amazing to watch this creature roll his body upwards reminding one of an armadillo and expertly hook into my son’s shirt with a scimitar-shaped claw. Oops, there goes the new and not cheap wool sweater. Clyde scored a run and a hole in one by agile use of flangipropping muscles still unknown to science. I lament: “How many times do I have to tell you not to pick up Clyde like that!?” The maternal rhetorical question goes unanswered.
The most peaceful moment of any day for me is the evening when the master of Flangiprop has finished galavanting around the neighbourhood and eaten enough to fill out any creases in his sable-coloured catsuit and settles in for the night upstairs in my attic room . He has his spot on a thick coverlet at the foot of my bed. He preens his fur using his flangipropping dexterity, hind leg raised behind his head, or turning his neck a good 180 owlish degrees to groom a spot between his shoulder blades. Clyde then lets go of a long, contented sigh and disappears again into the deep and mysterious realm of feline sleep. He is behind me as I write this post. The presence of a cat in one’s house is a lovely circumstance indeed.