You grew on me. You played with me, scratched me, bit me. Growled and hissed at me.
I’d pick you up and flip you over. I’d wrestle you through the covers, laughing as you got more furious.
You attacked people, you hissed at almost everyone. You mastered the skill of the ambush assault.
You’d tell me off. You’d tell me when to go to bed. You’d cuddle with me before I went to sleep, then hiss when I pet you.
You wanted to be an outside cat. You’d watch for your moment, and sneak outside, jump the fence so you could lay in the sun in the neighbors’ yard. But when it got dark, you’d come home, demanding to be let in.
He was a beautiful cat. The finest, softest fur you’ve ever felt.
He had the personailty of a sociopath on Meth, but he did have his cuddly moments.
We got him after some schmuck dropped him into the bookdrop at a library. At the time we had two, but my wife brought him home and named him. At that point, I was stuck.
But we adopted each other. He’d wait until I was reading in bed, and then climb dead center onto my chest. If I moved him, he’d growl. If I rolled over, he’d hiss.
But he’d stay with me until I turned off the light. Then he’d go do his own thing for the night.
