Sweetums says he hates my little black-and-white cat, Charley. I ask how he can possibly hate such a pwecious, adowable wittle kitty. Then I snuggle my face into his tummy – the cat’s, not Sweetums’ – and mumble baby talk to him while he squirms to get away from me – again, the cat.
Sweetums’ favorite response is: “You know if you died right now, he’d eat you, right?” It’s his little way of pointing out that cats are not our friends – they tolerate us because we feed them and allow them to use any of our body parts as beds but they otherwise have no need of us until they find themselves locked in a house with only a cadaver for food.
But Charley is the picture of innocence. He was a stray runt who grew to about the size of a 10-month-old cat and stopped, bless his heart. But apparently his lungs are full-sized. He has a tendency to give high-pitched “mrroooows,” usually when someone is trying to sleep or otherwise exist.
I have been spent years trying to convince Sweetums that Charley’s name does not begin with an “A” and end with “hole,” to no avail. Click here to read the full column.