As if the colour of her coat calls to the light, she seeks the sun with a determination and precision I’ve not seen in a cat before.
Sure, I’ve had cats that love to lie in the sun and even move across the floor as the sun travels the sky.
But this one… the sun calls to her.
Our other cat, doesn’t care nearly as much about being in the sun as our sun queen.
He also can’t take the sun like the sun queen can.
Every summer, when the hotter months roll around, I have to make sure to periodically check on him to make sure he’s not killing himself.
Because while he can’t take the sun like she can, it won’t stop him from trying.
More than once I’ve had to carry his heat-limp body into the shade, where he’s lain panting for a good while before he’s had the energy to even stand up.
But not the sun queen.
Many a time have I picked her up and carried her to the shade, only to have her give me a disdainful look before walking right back to where she was sunbathing.
I’ve since learned that a visual confirmation that she’s still breathing will suffice.
We’ve had hot summer days when she’s sauntered into the sun first thing in the morning, and spent a full working day pretending to be a solar panel.
She’ll come in occasionally to drink, for meals (of course) and to stop at the restroom.
But other than that, she lies in the sun, baking.
Being in the sun doesn’t even make her lethargic, like it does to our other cat, because at the drop of a hat she’ll get up and zoom around the house.
And then go back to laying in the sun.
And she never misses second breakfast.
Like a character straight out of Hobbiton, she unerringly shows up in the kitchen when someone’s making breakfast.
Especially, if breakfast involves bread.
She loves little crummies. Croissant crummies are her favourite.
The flakier the croissant, the more happily this toothless old granny will (noisily) munch it down.
She even sits on a chair, politely waiting for her presence to be acknowledged.
If her intent stare is ignored or no bread crummies appear despite her being on-site, she’ll give a squeaky yawn and start purring so loud you can hear her from the next room.
If all else fails, she’ll gently tap the closest diner on the arm with a fluffy paw to say, “Krhm, I’ve yet to be served and I’ve been very patient with the lacklustre service.”
Senior citizen and superior rank she might be, but she’s tiny, about half the size of her adopted little brother who routinely uses her as a body pillow.
Even so, she’s the only one of these two I’ve ever heard growl and hiss.
She once even came to the kitchen in a tizzy when I was scrubbing the tiles behind the stove and the sponge was making a squeaky noise.
She searched the kitchen but when she found no intruders, she sat in the doorway facing out, growling at the empty living room every time the sponge squeaked.
She also bosses everyone around any chance she gets.
In the morning particularly, she’ll guide each and every hooman to the bathroom from bed.
Mostly because she loves to hang out in the bathroom while you’re on the toilet.
It’s like a magical world that’s just so damn irresistible once that door closes, and she’ll be damned if she’s caught on the wrong side of someone taking a shit.
Because she used to be obese when she came to us, she’s now got an extremely loose primordial pouch.
When she runs, it swings from side to side like a sailor’s hammock out on the high seas.
It’s a lot smaller than it used to be, but the loose skin from years of being too big for her small frame has left its mark.
And for some reason she’s decided that she likes to sit on me.
If I sit on the sofa, she sits in my lap.
If I lie down on the floor, she sits on my tummy.
If I sleep in late one morning, she sits on my back.
When I take a quick meditation break in the middle of the day, she comes running when she hears the guided meditation starting up.
Maybe it’s because I spend the most time with them, being the only one that works from home.
Maybe she just likes to sit on me because a queen needs her throne.
And even though some nights it’s like having piss-drunk, cocaine-high rock stars in your house, what with the fights, vomiting, tearing around the house, yowling for food, and occasional rogue shit, I can’t imagine life without these gremlins in the house.
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