Every once in a while, Ira Glass interrupts himself on This American Life to say something like “Now, we should note that the next story may not be suitable for all audiences. There’s nothing graphic or anything, but it does acknowledge the existence of sex.” These warnings always make me smile. Tere’s a whole lot of ground between “existence” and “graphic,” so the notice feels more like a wink and a nudge than a warning. And if I’m bothered by the existence of sex, it’s too late now to back up and unhear the warning.

Well, since I’m still laid up with the aftermath of the flu and desperately in need of something to do that doesn’t require moving, or even sitting up, I thought I’d write a little. But the thing that popped into my head to write about is one that triggers an Ira Glassian warning in my head every time I mentally compose the post.

There. Consider yourself warned.

Oh, and for those of you who don’t know, Pippin is a cat. I feel that this could be an important piece of context before we proceed.

Without further ado…

Twice a day, Pippin claims me as his own property — once in the morning and once after work. It started innocently enough. At first, he’d follow me solemnly into the bathroom and sniff my folded hands as I sat on the toilet. Then one day he gently and deliberately rubbed each of his whiskered cheeks against those folded hands. Apparently, this exercised pleased him. The next time we met there in the bathroom, he was much more insistent and thorough in his marking. He applied multiple layers of scent to each hand, stopped to sniff his handiwork, and then reapplied scent where needed.

That was all well and good. Cute, even. But then simple cheek-rubbing stopped being sufficient for the job. Why stop with scent glands when you can add saliva? And so, little by little, he started rubbing his whiskered cheeks and his teeth repeatedly against each clasped hand. And then he started licking and gnawing in between scent applications, and his nose-nuzzling became downright aggressive.

He also became increasingly impatient for me to sit down to be marked. It used to be that when I got home from work he’d flop onto his back and request a belly rub. Now he precedes me emphatically down the hall to the bathroom, where I’m expected to follow regardless of need, it seems. And if I do follow, he sometimes rears up on his hind legs to begin the process before I even sit down.  On the rare occasion that he’s otherwise occupied and doesn’t notice when I wake up in the morning, he’ll come running from whatever corner of the house he’s been exploring, meowing loudly to let me know he’s coming. “I’m here! Wait up!! Sorry I’m late!”

I suppose this particular reaffirmation of willingness to be companions might get old eventually, but as long as he doesn’t progress to blood drawing I think the odd ritual can continue. If nothing else, it gives me a story to tell that requires a Glassian warning, which makes the whole thing doubly amusing.