The matriarch of our family is about 17 1/2 years old, has long grey fur and rules her staff (that would be Mrs Widds and me) with an iron paw. Mrs Widds is, however her special person. I don’t mind. They were together long before I came along. I don’t doubt that I’m loved, but know very clearly that I’m at the bottom of the pack.
I’ve had at least one moggie for most of my adult life, and I do miss being that special person, but our apartment is small, the Matriarch, hereafter known as WidderCat (I bow head respectfully at the mere mention of her name) has a low tolerance for adolescents, or younger, of any species. There’s just no room for another addition, either physically or emotionally.
We’re not going to be here forever, and when we move, (to a place at ground level with a functional kitchen, and closets) then I’ll see if there’s a wee beastie for me.
This is as close as I’m going to get to admitting that I, occasionally, sometimes, now-and-then, once-in-a-while, check out the cyoot kittehs at I can Haz Cheezburger, so I don’t pine away to a mere shadow of my former self.
This one appealed to my melodramatic side:
And this … is self explanatory:
“I believe cats to be spirits come to earth. A cat, I am sure, could walk on a cloud without coming through” – Jules Verne