My parents have a cat. Her name is Gigi, and she is completely psychotic. All cats can manage baleful stares when the occasion warrants, but Gigi goes all the way beyond baleful to bileful. When she stares at you, you stay stared at.
She’s a handsome animal, a gray Persian, but don’t be tempted by that soft fur. She whacks any hand that gets near her unless it’s got a cat-treat in it.
But I’m not deprived of cat-affection. In addition to psycho-kitty, there is Neighbor Bob the tuxedo-cat. Bob is not my parents’ cat, but my parents feed him. He doesn’t live in my parents’ house, but can usually be found outside. He is delighted to hold a conversation with me while I pet him… and yesterday, I sat down on the front steps to scratch his somewhat misshapen head, and damn if he didn’t just crawl right into my lap and make himself at home.
I miss the Goth-kitties, but I’m just fickle enough to enjoy Neighbor Bob’s company.
