BabyCat. How are you 8? How have I had you for five years? Gosh, we've been through a bit, you and me. 6 houses in three years, a whole relationship, a baby, a new relationship. You don't even flinch when we move house any more, just jump out of your carrier and decide where you want your bed. You're grumpy, and cranky, and bite me a lot, but then you curl up on my lap chewing my hand like a comfort thingy and I fall in love with your cranky arse all over again. You're so tiny! 5 kilos in your carrier, and so much fluff. Which you shed everywhere, always. Especially on my pillow.
I deeply appreciate how you always use the tray. I don't appreciate the way you use my mum's cane chair as your scratching post, you know this and stop the second you hear the nerf gun cocked.
I'm sorry I had to cart you from pillar to post when it was just us, especially as you're so hideously car-sick.
Of all my cats, you're my cat. My BabyCat, lapcat and grumpypants extraordinaire. Never change.
PatchyPoo, what the hell? Seriously. You're the most patient cat of catkind, sitting still for three year olds to pat you the wrong way, stretching and purring and farting in bliss, but you cannot wait one minute for me to scoop the one, lone poop and shit off the side, instead. Why? Oh, and please stop trying to go outside. You just cost me $1500 in vet bills, you're not leaving this house until you are 100% in working order. Stop.
You've shredded my dining table and the chairs are going the same way. You don't flinch when a nerf shotgun is emptied two inches from your front paws, purr in bliss when squirted with water and peed everywhere when I wrapped the legs of the table in carpet. Despite all this, I will miss you hugely when your Real Mummy moves and can have you back, I'll miss your cuddles and your head bonks. DD will pine for you, just as your Real Mummy does now.
Bootiebum. Of all my cats, we've had the rockiest of relationships. First you scratch me so hard I needed a stitch. Then you freak out if anybody so much as breathes next to you, and finally you tried to have a show-down with BabyCat. The vet bill from that was substantial. You observe one poop in the tray, and proceed to poop in the bath, no matter how many are in there. You're a spunky thing, I'll give you that. You're not a lap cat, but I love how you sit so close to me I can feel your little heartbeat, and clean my trackies with deep concentration. Cutie.
Ebi, my little fraidycat. You're still so nervous, aren't you? You used to bolt to the other side of the house if anyone considered perhaps maybe looking at you, but yesterday I walked past you in the kitchen and you stayed still! Mummy has never been more proud. You came for cuddles this morning, too, purring and head-bonking and chirping. You've come a long way, Ebi. Mummy's proud.
Hmm. Essay on my cats.