I love my cats. I love them like I would love my own children. They are outrageously wonderful, and I'm not ashamed to say so. They have turned my mate of six years into an obsessive cat fanatic. This is the same man who once told me, shortly before we moved in together, that he just didn't understand "having pets". Now, he is occasionally late to work because he can't stop cooing and cuddling with my seventeen-year-old grey tabby, "Tom", one of three fur-babies in the house.
Everyone falls in love with Tom, but he and my pseudo-husband are like peas in a pod. I'd be jealous that Tommy doesn't love me as much after I've spent almost two decades feeding, loving, sheltering and caring for him, but it's just too cute to see those two together. My boyfriend, for anonymity and clarity's sake, I will call "S", appreciates everything about Tom's unique personality, and some of the longest chats we have during an average work week are about the details and nuances of Tom's patterns of behavior. S positively GUSHES about his "best friend". Tom rushes from his day-long nap each day to greet S when he arrives home from work. He follows him around the house. If S manages to sit still for any length of time, Tom inevitably claims a spot in or near his lap. At night they snuggle together and sleep in the same position, Tom always sleeping pressed up close to S's body. They also snore in unison.
My cats are very sweet, loving creatures. During the day they always choose to nap close to where ever I happen to be planted, no matter where that is. They are here right now, snoozing the day away.
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