These days Sekhmet spends a lot of time living in the basement, to keep her separated from Chico, my mother-in-law's cat. This sounds a lot more onerous than it is, because the basement is where I and the Goober are sleeping, the main TV, all my knitting, and most of the Goober's toys. So Sekhmet still gets us twelve to eighteen hours a day, which is better than a cat whose humans work, when you think about it.
Somehow, even though I've explained the above to Sekhmet more than once, she still gets separation anxiety.
I am kitty velcro. I'm the prickly half. She's the fuzzy half. Szt. Stuck together. As I type this, she is sitting on the arm of the chair I'm sitting in, doing her trademark Lap Ooze manouver. At the moment, it is butt on arm of chair, front paws on my leg. I can tell from the shifting of her paws that in another minute or two, one of her front paws will come up over my arm to the center of my lap. It'll rest there for a bit, just like an accident. Then the next front paw will somehow - purely by accident, you know - wind up over my arm and into my lap. Then, her butt will ooze off the arm of the chair and onto my arm. Without appearing to move, she will somehow slide over until she is curled up in a ball between my arms while I try to type, leaving about two inches of each knee to support my laptop.
She just dripped nose condensation on my hand.
And her butt just plopped onto my arm, while her purring rattles my computer.
Fucker. (Yes, I'll give her a pat from all of you.)