Mr. Bingley our Maine Coon Cat

Mr. Bingley.

Easy. I would be my cat, Mr. Bingley.

Not a lion. Not an eagle. Not even one of those rich people’s dogs that ride around in purses.

Mr. Bingley has somehow managed to negotiate the greatest contract in the history of labor relations.

He pays no mortgage.
He has no job.
He contributes absolutely nothing to the household economy.

Yet every morning he receives breakfast service delivered directly to his dining area.

He sleeps about eighteen hours a day, wakes up exhausted, stretches dramatically as if he just finished a double shift at the steel mill, and then moves to another location for a nap.

He has a personal staff member — my wife — who follows him around asking if he is comfortable, if he wants treats, if his water is fresh enough, and whether he might enjoy sitting in a different chair for a change of scenery.

Meanwhile, if I make a noise getting out of my recliner, the response is usually, “What did you do now?”

Mr. Bingley gets called handsome, sweetie, baby, and angel.

I get, “Can you take the trash out on your way to the garage?”

The level of privilege this cat enjoys is honestly remarkable.

If Mr. Bingley decides he wants to sit on my wife’s lap, that’s it. She’s trapped until further notice.

And this isn’t some little eight-pound house cat we’re talking about. Mr. Bingley is one of those huge Maine Coon cats that weighs about as much as a carry-on suitcase and takes up roughly the same amount of space.

If he decides he wants to lie on top of her while she’s sleeping, she simply accepts her fate. She won’t move. She won’t get up. She won’t even shift positions if she needs to because she doesn’t want to disturb him.

Imagine having that kind of power.

If I woke her up in the middle of the night by climbing on top of her and lying across her chest, I have a feeling the conversation would go very differently.

The pampering doesn’t stop there.

Mr. Bingley is groomed daily. His neck receives a sufficient amount of scratching and rubbing to meet all quality control standards. He has an enormous box overflowing with his favorite toys.

He gets regular dental cleanings, regular medical checkups, and eats cat food that costs more per pound than some cuts of steak.

And as far as my wife’s dinner plate goes, it isn’t really her dinner plate. It’s more of a buffet with open sampling privileges for management.

Chicken? He’ll have some.

Turkey? Absolutely.

Fish? Don’t insult him by asking twice.

Meanwhile, if I reach across the table and take something off her plate without permission, I suspect Human Resources would become involved immediately.

When he stares blankly out the window for an hour, he’s “watching the birds.”

When I stare blankly out the window for an hour, apparently I’m “avoiding the project list.”

The cat has figured life out.

Eat.
Sleep.
Get scratched behind the ears.
Judge everyone silently.
Knock something off a table once in a while just to remind people who’s in charge.

If I could trade places with him for a week, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

Although knowing my luck, the one week I picked would probably be the week of his annual trip to the vet.