I visit with my cats several times a day. They demand. Scratches are required. I’m either going to give them, or I’m going to get them. I better do it right, too.
Tucker is the house alpha cat. A street rescue who was probably left behind when his people moved, he used to love fighting the other cats and imposing his will. Remembering this, they’re now wary of him in the same way that Americans are wary of Russians because they used to be the Soviets.
The Soviets would be a good name for a punk band.
Tucker has changed, though. The others don’t realize it. Tucker has come to understand that I disapprove of him stalking and ambushing the others, so he’s stopped. I know because I watch. The other cats don’t know he’s there. He gives them a look, but then I see him reining himself in.
The three boys are interesting regarding people. Whatever their pasts (all are rescues), Boo and Papi (aka Meep) want nothing to do with anyone except my wife and me. People come to the front door, they go out the pet door in the back. When a Zoom call takes place, those two shake their heads. “Nope. Too many people. I don’t know who they are, and I don’t want to find out.” Out they go. The fact they can’t see the people seems to make it worse.
“Invisible people,” they say. “Who needs that?”
Tucker, though, makes the rounds. “Hello, hi, hey, how you doing?” He joins the Zoom sessions like he’s been invited by name.
All three love it when a cupboard or closet door opens. Eyes on one another, they hurry over to peer in. “Is it Narnia? No? Where’s it go? Is there anything to eat?”
Although they love being my shadow (Tucker is right beside my laptop right now), they usually sleep through the day. They often change positions and locations. Being a doting floof father, I check on them. Sometimes their sleep seems so deep that I worry, “Are they alive?” I watch for breathing, then an ear moves, and I’m reassured. If I’m really worried, I open a can of food.
That always wakes them.