In Shiva’s mind, the best seat in the house is the one you just vacated. She could be curled up on the couch, the expanse to herself, and the moment I get up from my chair to grab a snack or find my phone or, on rare occasions, clean something, she skulks over to my former place.
By the time I return, she has snuggled in, as if she has napped there for hours and I am the interloper. She manages this comfortable sprawl in the amount of time it takes me to walk the five metres to the kitchen sink. I never even hear her move.
Shiva, the chair-stealing ninja.
She doesn’t only swipe my chair, however. I can’t play the sole victim to her insidious crimes. She will do it to my PH as well. So many times I have watched her tilt her head, waiting to detect his footfalls up the stairs, and then spring with light feet from the couch into his favoured leather recliner. It doesn’t take her more than two or three steps before she has settled in. It is the most admirable act of chair kleptomania I have ever witnessed.
The worst part is, she makes you feel like a selfish jerk for wanting your spot back when you return. Shiva knows no guilt. When you leave the room, you know the risk you are taking. You have forfeited all rights to your seat and should expect it to be gone. Those are the rules. Lest you be met with this face, in which case, it is all over anyway.