I’m officially no longer allowed to call him kitten, according to my husband.
He has been the object of much laughter and swearing since he arrived in May of last year.
He likes scritches on his cheeks and drinking the water out of the soaking oatmeal pan.
If you come to our house, we have a “hands-above-the-table rule.” You have been warned. But wear jeans because he might decide to climb up your leg.
His purr is as therapeutic as a hot water bottle.
He curls up behind my bent legs at night, but if Earl gets up to use the bathroom, he immediately takes over his side of the bed.
For a month now, he’s been an indoor/outdoor cat, and, remarkably, he’s still alive.
He hasn’t made any cat friends, in spite of his efforts to make himself subservient, but the students who walk past stop to pet him. One made the mistake of picking him up.
Our French neighbor Alain said, “il est libre!” With an expansive gesture. He is free. “C’est naturel.”
Happy birthday, Louis Catorze. We hope you grow in cat common sense in the next year.