The delightful thing about Saturdays is taking a nap. I left my Esteemed Spouse downstairs, dozing to golf or football or something, and I headed upstairs, where I curled up in my much-missed bed. I'd barely begun to snooze when Simon began to look for me, asking in his feline way, "Where are you?" (Meow? Meow?) Eventually it grew quiet, so I thought he'd gone back downstairs, but when I awoke, I saw that he was asleep, curled up on my blouse at the food of the bed. Huge bed, lots of room for him to be, but no, he finds my blouse and settles himself into the middle of it. Then when I went to get him off it, he extends all claws and tries to bring the blouse with him when I pick him up. I'm glad it's not a "good" (i.e., work) blouse since it's decorated a bit differently than it used to be. Tiny little holes.
I can't fuss too much. Picking up that giant warm bundle of fur never fails to delight me. He's an entirely satisfactory cat. He purrs so loudly he can be heard from several feet away. He loves to rub cheeks and touch noses. He can be irritating when he demands his petting time early in the morning, but when I'm away in Big Rapids, I miss that morning petting session. (I don't always miss the cat hair all over my clothing, though, since some of it tends to travel with me.) He's beautiful and affectionate, and he talks to me. What more could I ask for?
Well. If only he could cook. But then, my husband isn't much of a cook, either, and I tend to be very fond of him, also.
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