My cat wants to sleep on my injured groin and I'm not having it

Nov. 19—The wide-eyed look of excitement on Flannery's face as she padded into the living room terrified me.

"Don't even think about it," I told her as she picked up her pace. Not that it did any good. Flannery is as deaf as a soggy dish rag.

Also, she's a cat.

I knew what she wanted. As she's aged, Flannery has devoted the entirety of her life to just two obsessions: 1.) eating stinky mush out of a can and, 2.) sleeping in a human's lap for obscene amounts of time.

It's the latter that had me concerned. My lap was the one place I didn't want her, because it's where my groin is located. That's where the car had hit me.

OK, that's only sort of true. The car actually hit my scooter, Skeeter, which in turn rammed its handlebars or some other metallic blunt part directly into my unmentionables. On paper, it's not really the most dramatic injury in the world. It didn't leave me disfigured — just discolored — and there doesn't seem to be any permanent scarring. I don't require a peg leg or robotic arm.

Still, despite being relatively minor as far as car versus human injuries go, the accident didn't leave me without some challenges. Both standing up and its reverse weren't exactly pleasant, and any exercise more vigorous than groaning in pain or yelling at someone to bring me something was completely out of the question.

Most importantly to the living collection of ancient bones and fur scraps that is our oldest cat, however, is that my injury made my lap off limits. It was something her tiny cat brain could neither comprehend or abide.

"No, Missus," I told the old lady as she clumsily clawed her way onto the ottoman before attempting to use my outstretched legs as a bridge to my battered netherbits. I blocked her progress with an outward palm, which she immediately attempted to circumvent.

"Stop. Just stop," I told her. "I don't want you in my lap right now. I'm hurt."

Flannery's eyes narrowed as she stared at the upturned palm inhibiting her journey. Again, she attempted to go around, and again I moved my hand to block her.

"No," I said. "I don't want you on my lap right now."

With all the grace of a lopsided trapeze artist, Flannery placed a paw upon my knee, waited to see if I'd react, then placed a second paw on the same knee.

"Nope," I said. I lifted her from the ottoman and plopped her onto the floor . In an instant, she had turned and was preparing to attempt a floor-to-lap leap, a maneuver that would undoubtedly end in horrible pain for both of us. I did us both a solid and blocked that, too.

"I want up there!" she yelled, or what I believe is the cat equivalent of such a demand.

"And I'm telling you, it's not going to happen. There are a thousand comfy places you can snooze in this house that will not cause tendrils of pain to squeeze my innards into oblivion. So, just stop."

To her credit, the same stubborn refusal to quit anything at all is likely what has kept Flannery alive for so long — some 16 or 17 years by our estimate. There's something admirable about her persistence in the face of adversity, even if I ... as I did at that moment ... often hate it with the same kind of fervor as I do stabbing pains in my most private of areas.

Which is why, as I stared down into the bright, determined eyes of the cat who'd been with me for more than a third of my life, my heart softened.

I removed my hand. She immediately launched herself upward, nearly landed on my lap, then clawed her way up the side of my leg and settled down directly atop my injured manhood.

Curled into a ball, Flannery closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, content as she's ever been. Her purring almost, but not quite, drowned out my cries of pain.

ADAM ARMOUR is the news editor for the Daily Journal and former general manager of The Itawamba County Times. You may reach him via his Twitter handle, @admarmr.