I've been a cat lover since I was 4, when my sister brought home our first kitty, Tiger, an amiable sort who came seeking tuna and set up shop with us for 16 years...
(If you really think about it, what a strange concept it is owning a pet. You basically grab a living creature -- many times from a different environment -- plop him/her in your household, assign a name and let it flow. No blood ties, no familial connection. How many of us could handle such a transition? One that doesn't involve a beach house and live-in masseuses, of course.)
Not to slight our canine friends, who I have admired for many years, but there is something about the independent, almost FU attitude of cats that has always intrigued me. Of course, at the end of the day, I want a bit of affection from my felines...I figure if the wife can provide some, why not these furry creatures who lay around all day, eat and poop at our expense.
Currently, we own three cats: Simba, who we've had for 14-plus years (basically the length of our marriage), Sammy, a resident of 5-and-a-half years, and our newest addition, a Tasmanian Devil we have dubbed Ricky (see menacing figure above). At six months old, this creature has entered the scene kicking ass and taking names, completely disrupting the rather sedentary life S & S had established.
We've tried various way to take the pressure off of the elder kitties: Bonnie's newest trick is a laser that catches Ricky's attention (diverting it from Simba's and Sammy's tails) and sends him flying around the room in a fruitless search for the elusive light. It's working so far and I'm pretty sure the wise elder Simba shot me a thankful glance earlier this evening. You're welcome, old friend.
