we are his toys
The cat is totally fucking with me/us this morning. He’s sitting in the hallway, staring into an alcove. I know there’s NOTHING THERE and yet I still will stop and look in to check each 3rd or 4th time I pass by him… sitting there, intent.
He’s such a loving guy. He’s imprinted on all of us in unique ways. Catherine rescued him from the pound, carried him around as a fluff-ball. He put up with so much. And Cat can dish out a lot. Glenn is his buddy. Total buddy.
On the other hand, we have an odd relationship. Somehow I think he thinks I’m his mother. He’s taken to sleeping on my pillow right above my head. Or draped on my hip/back/face. The minute I flop down somewhere, he’s there within seconds to flop down on top of me. But the funniest thing he does is climb onto my shoulder and start to groom/lick my hair. I have to stop him because, frankly… that’s totally disgusting. And the noise it makes is worse than fingernails on chalkboard. Sometimes he gets carried away and starts to bite my scalp. Freaky. I’m like a cat-lady pirate.
