I have two cats. And I love them both.
There, I’ve admitted it.
Random, the elder of the two, is a stringy Siamese with an incredible force of will and a shocking desire to adore humans. His interests include everything I’m doing, whether it be sleeping, eating (Is that mine? Is it tuna?), plumbing, or moving furniture (Sorry, was I in your way? Oh, I still am? How about now?). He’s such a lovebug that he’s capable of sitting on my lap for hours at a time, staring up at me. When I glance down and our eyes meet, his purr starts up as if eye contact is the on-off switch. If I would consent to wear Random as a scarf all day, he’d be thrilled.
BartholeMEW is a fat brown tabby with some serious self-control issues. His interests include food, food, food and catnip. Or maybe that’s the other way ’round. He’s also fairly high on the adoration scale. If I’m sleeping in a room with the door closed, he sits outside and howls. When I walk into the room where he’s snoozing, he stretches his paws out at me in a gesture of benediction, trills a squeaky little mew, and presents his lush leopard-spotted belly for rubs.
Often, when one of the cats is sitting beside me or on me, I reach out and pet his little furry noggin as he looks up and points his whiskers at me in the benevolent feline smile, and I tell him he’s the best cat ever. The most amazing cat. The smartest, most beautiful, most fuzztacular cat ever.
Doesn’t matter which cat I’m speaking to. Doesn’t matter whether the other cat is close by to overhear. They both know that I’m telling the truth every… single… time.
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