I have two furry children. Both are orange tabbies. Both were strays, and, oddly enough, both have the same estimated birthday of August 28th… just 13 years apart. Ferris is thirteen, and Whiskey is a whopping six months old.
I love my cats. I might love them more than normal people love their cats, but I’m okay with that. I’m one of those people. A cat lover. It could be worse.
Ferris, being thirteen, and I, being twenty-eight, have been through a lot together. We’ve been through high school, prom, old boyfriends, college, jobs, my engagement, and a home purchase… just to name a few things. He’s always been there for me when I come home.
So, it’s no surprise, that I’m spoiled by him greeting me at the door, everyday. It’s our thing. I come home. I open the door. He meows at me. I put my things down, and pick him up for a little “hello” cuddle. No matter how simply good or bad my day was, Ferris will be there, and I will pick him up.
Whiskey, on the other hand, is a rambunctious, unpredictable, kitten. So when I come home, sometimes he’s there, and sometimes he’s not, and that seems fitting… or so I thought. When he’s there, I usually pick him up, after my routine with Ferris. When he’s not, I chase him around the house until I catch him, pick him up, give him a quick “hello” cuddle, because I don’t want him thinking I have a favorite. He might think that. You don’t know. Again, I’m a cat lover.
Typically I get home after my fiance. He’s a teacher too, but with a few more years than me under his belt. So, he is versed in the sorcery that is getting out of work at a decent time, whereas I am still figuring out this magic.
Anyways, for this day, I beat him home. After the day I had, I needed to be at home. So, I was. I opened the door, Ferris meowed at me, I put my things down, and picked him up. I kissed his head, and pet him. He purred, and nuzzled my shoulder with his head. So sweet. It’s totally unjustified that to my extended family he’s earned the nickname of “The Bad Meow”. That’s a story for another day.
After a few minutes I put him down, and begin my search for the wild Whiskey so as not to play favorites, of course. From the foyer I hear the sweet sound of something being knocked over in the next room, and I know instantly where my little furry baby is. So, I walk into the family room, and find my kitten, who is on the table behind the loveseat, grabbing Hershey kisses from the candy dish with his mouth so that he can bat them around the room with his paw as evidenced by all of the other candy on the floor. Why do I spend money on cat toys? He runs and I eventually catch him, gracefully, there’s no need for details here. I didn’t chase him around the table with Benny Hill playing in the background. Then, I begin to force a quick “hello” cuddle upon him. Finally, after my totally normal cat-greeting routine, I plop my big butt on the loveseat, and begin enjoying some of the undisturbed Hershey kisses in that same, reachable candy dish.
After a hilariously inappropriate episode of South Park, my fiance comes home. I think I’m funny, so I yell, “Mom, I need more cheesy poofs!”… And I think I’m going to hear laughter, so when I don’t, the next natural thing for me to think is that something is horribly, horribly wrong. There really is no in between.
I get up. I walk to the foyer, and to my surprise there is Whiskey, in Mike’s arms, purring like crazy, and licking his beard. Oh, and pausing every now and then to nuzzle Mike’s face with his own.
“Aw, how sweet! Look at how much he loves you.” I admire.
“Yeah,” Mike responds, “he always greets me like this.”
It was adorable. It was also an outrage. Apparently I need a beard.