Shmool softener

Two days to our due date. Still no word from our man on the inside. The doctor remarked earlier this week that our son seems really happy, comfortable, and content right where he is. That's my Maus — always the perfect hostess, always keeping the guests comfy and well fed.

This cat, however, is not the cat I've known for 12 years. Whether he's picking up on the vibe of the new hire soon joining our team, or he's been softened by the loss of his brother, or he's just mellowing with age, one thing's clear — Shmool has become, for lack of a better term, a real pussycat.

Used to be, when he'd follow us around meowing in his distinctive warbly twang, he wanted food! Service! Hop to it, man! Now, he still follows us around murmuring that insistent drawl of his, but more often than not he just wants to be picked up and held. He wants belly rubs. He purrs.

All of this is new. For as long as I can remember, the belly has been streng verboten! (as has all contact more than three inches from his head and neck). And I'd always believed his purr-motor was missing or defective (like R2-D2's leg rockets, this is a gadget I never knew he had). Now he's all laps and massages and even (gasp!) the occasional affectionate lick.

Which of course would be completely fine, even welcome in our sans-Fabio household, except that all too soon our available laptime is going to plummet suddenly and alarmingly. And I fear the backlash.

Then again, maybe he'll warm to the baby the same way he seems to be warming to the rest of us. Maybe he'll take the kid under his protection. Lord knows this house has seen stranger things.