People can call me a cat lady all they want. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a compliment. I think they’re just jealous that my roommate takes up so little space in the bed, is quiet as can be, and is never rude in the morning. Even when she snores, it’s such a delicate whinny that it only makes me love her more. Honest to Godfrey, I live with one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, and she’s eternally cloaked in soft, striped fur.
Permakitten Grace and I are going through a full-on second honeymoon, no doubt because she’s working overtime to take care of me while I take care of some big-girl problems outside of our nest. Not to mention that we’re in the sweet spot of the newly cold weather, when it’s more of a novelty than a hair shirt and she’s got radiator to snuggle and I’ve got glamorous new layers of tweed and leather to don and we’re both pleased as punch to cozy up. It’s gotten to the point that she stops eating her breakfast at least three times just to thank me with kisses and I can’t leave the house without giving her at least three more. When I read or watch films, she curls right next to me, hiding her little triangle ears in that most delightful of kitty pretzels. And when I write, she stretches her tiny tiger paw over me protectively, as if to ward off any potential blocks or bad memories. I’m pretty sure that if I could set up a keyboard that accommodated her lack of opposable thumbs, she’d write those pieces herself. They’d be pretty good, too.