Cattitude

In our household, no one has more of a carefree attitude toward life than Darwin. Not even Geni, who is a blissful soul.

Darwin lives each and every moment to the maximum, be it eating or sleeping or playing or looking for Trouble, which, as you know, is his middle name.

I'm a pretty hopeful person (a trait that often either gets me in trouble or leads me straight to disappointment), and while I'm mostly of a cheery disposition, my husband tends toward the "Droopy" side, as my mami says. I joke that he's more of a "gloom and doom" guy, so we balance each other well.

For her part, Magellan is always looking for a reason to complain. If my husband isn't ready to have her on his lap, she complains. If he moves too much while she's on his lap, she'll bite him to register her complaint. If I don't "water" her fast enough, she complains. If the litter isn't clean to her specifications, she complains. If I don't feed her quickly enough, she complains. You get the drift. You'd think Magellan was born into pampered royalty and not under an industrial air conditioning unit, abandoned by her mother.

Darwin is something else entirely. Everything makes Darwin happy. His food, his toys, the sofa, the bed, the stuffed toys that he regularly molests, the closet, the freshly laundered and folded sheets and towels awaiting their trip into the linen closet. My husband, abetting Darwin's penchant for entertainment, doesn't just give him his treats, but instead plays "kill the treat" and the cat milks every moment of it. He bats the treats around like they were live prey he was toying with, and only when he's satisfied that he's triumphed over the treat, does he finally eat it.

Because he knows Dr. S is terribly allergic to cats, Darwin always gravitates toward her, her coat, her possessions, anything of hers that's in our house at any particular moment. When she visits, we have to hide all of them in a closet so Darwin is thwarted in his purpose of leaving his smell, his hair, his dander, anything of his that he can get onto her stuff.

Pain-in-the-ass that he is, however, Dr. S obliges him by enthusiastically playing with him, for which Darwin is eternally grateful since he doesn't get as much attention in that department from us as he'd like. After Dr. S is gone, he walks around the house yowling in despair because his best buddy has left him behind.

The photo above shows one of Darwin's favorite poses: looking smug and satisfied, lying right on top of me, claiming me as his own. It's true what they say about cats. We think we own them, but they know, and they make a point to show us, that (in truth) they are the ones that own us.