my cat raynaud is the best birthday present i've ever gotten.
every day, after walking back and forth rubbing against my face while i type, he lays down on a stack of papers and conks out. then, if i'm on the phone, he gets up and resumes face-rubbing. ray seems to get jealous of the person i'm talking to on speakerphone [or maybe he's one of those guys that just bans speakerphone use] so he walks over and knocks the receiver off the cradle to stop the infernal yapping.
toddlers have proven to be a source of fear and hatred for my other two moggies. not for the squirt. he rolls around on his back and, despite their squeals of excitement and heavy-handed petting [read "bonking on head with heel of hand"], he is always gentle. who would have thought he'd ever be close to as much fun as my late ollie was? i wish oliver was still alive and not in that vase on my bookshelf -- they'd'a been buds.
he does have some odd feral cat habits; we picked him up as a stray from chicago animal care and control [da soufside pound! holla!]. he paws around his water dish before drinking [clearing a puddle?] the other cats are like, "dude. you mind much? yer gettin' yer digits in my bevvie." jackson and chippie give him the ol' eff-you, feline style [jerk paw violently and walk away].
one fortunate feral tendency is to bury his crap like a champ. there's a veritable pyramid of litter over the slightest morsel of waste. jackson [gumblequeue] can take a few tips: he just leaves a man-size log to fester atop the mound and bails. it's like stosh the plumber [another story -- another time] came over and got desperate after clearing out the elston white castle... again.