You know, I go on about my critters and their antics, but I can't help but notice sometimes it's the little things they do that endear them to me.

Samantha is my lap fungus. She dotes on me. Whenever I sit down, there she is in my lap, with her face turned toward me and going into ecstasies of pleasure if I so much as pet her. When I go out into the garage to work on my little projects, I have to close her out, because she likes to help just a bit too much. Also, it is dangerous out there with so many odd chemicals and sharp tools to get into.

When I come back in, I've learned to open the door carefully, for she is sure to be pressed tightly against it waiting my return. She protests loudly at being shoved aside, but no matter where I go, there I am. And so is she, like a superfluous appendage with a mind of it's own. Sort of like Dr. Strangelove's hand.

If I'm eating, she ducks under my arm and wants to share. If I'm typing, she's right there trying to help me peck the keys. If I'm reading, she's looking over my shoulder and making clucks of approval or snarls of displeasure at my choice of reading material. If I'm going up or down the stairs, at about the halfway point she runs between my feet and leads the way. And through it all she's chirping and meowing and keeping up her part of a never-ending conversation.

Cherokee is the silent one. The vet said he might be eight or ten years old, but he seems much older. After he soaks in the sun for a while he gets pretty spry, and for a while he's almost a kitten again. Then his arthritis kicks in and it's back to the sun. In the morning he seeks the sunny side of the curtains in the upstairs bedroom, and in the afternoon he comes downstairs and suns himself in the living room. At night he measures the back of the sofa and dreams of younger days when he could still catch mice or birds and roll in the grass and chase butterflies. He smiles and licks his lips in his sleep, and his paws twitch as if preparing to leap in pursuit of some forever elusive prey of so long ago.

Sometimes I'll walk past where he's sunning downstairs, and he'll watch to see where I go. Of course I always stoop and skritch his ears and under his chin as I pass, and once when I did that he was moved to follow me. I was almost at the top of stairs when I heard him panting and thumping behind me. I turned to look, and he was painfully dragging himself up the stairs, one step at a time, and his arthritis must have been really hurting him. I turned back and scooped him up in my arms and carried him the rest of the way up, then into the bedroom, and lay him down on the bed. When I lay down beside him, he put his head on my shoulder and one paw on my chest and fell sound asleep. Rather than disturb him I went ahead and took a nap myself.

I woke up in about an hour, and I must have twitched, because he raised his head. He looked at me for moment, then moved up until his cheek was touching mine and just purred and rubbed and purred and rubbed some more. Samantha lay between my knees and purred contentedly along with him, eyes closed and just the tip of her little pink tongue protruding. I have no idea what I've done to inspire such affection, but I treasure every minute of it.

Sasha is no longer running the store. For some time now she has been the 'displaced person' around here, not contributing anything but bad humor and sulks. So when a neighbor visited the other day and admired her, she wound up taking Sasha home with her. The lady has two other Siamese, so Sasha can start all over again showing them how a respectable home should be run. I wish her well.

Mac is. . .well, he's Mac. He'll be a puppy forever, I guess, tripping over things and getting in the way and mooching treats at the table and annoying the cats. But he adds to the pleasure level around here. I think even the cats would grieve if something happened to him.

Copyright © David Yehudah
March 21, 2000