I love cats. At least, I love my cats.
Brownie and Whitey are my role models.I love that they love me – that I’m the sun in their universe. I love their occasional wide-eyed desperate stares that leave me guessing about what they mean.
I find it amusing how they chase each other at high speeds, literally bouncing off the furniture,and sniff out the same spot on the sofa each time they pass day in and day out throughout the years.
I admire that they’re so content to purr, be held, petted, and squished up against any available breathing body.
I marvel had how predictable they are– each with their distinct eating, sleeping, and bathroom habits. They look so handsome, and walk and move so elegantly.
I love how insistent they are with plaintiff cries, begging to come upstairs when they’re down, even if they had just convinced me to let them go there ten minutes earlier. I’m astonished at how they fight like cats one minute and are snuggling together in the next.
I laugh at how they look like ponies, ready to gallop out of a gate, only to divert their course and beeline to the kitchen or under my computer desk.
They’re happy to sleep away the hours under the covers (Whitey) or in the closet (Brownie), and seem grateful just to be fed or to spend time with me.They really ask for little and give so much.