I love cats. I can't seem to remember. Is it because Bear has a predilection for dumping over all things containing fluid? In mere seconds, he hooks his meaty paw along the rim and with one swift snag, there is water everywhere . . . or coffee . . . or gasp . . Cabernet!!! Great rivulets of the purple stuff dripping over the edge of the bedside table, splashing onto the bed linens, puddling on the hard wood floor . . . not to mention the shards of glass that need to be dodged with bare feet. Or, could it be the cold weather that makes them so rambunctious that Bear wakes me up at 3:51 a.m. with a little wad of slightly damp paper dropped ever so daintily onto my left cheek in hopes I will play fetch with him . . . his eyes so eager. Or because my heart goes into spasms spying that rather large sleek rat scurrying along the kitchen back splash toward the opening can of cat food. Shoo Ninja! Only Snoop remains serene and poised, staying out of trouble. But I can tell he is remembering his youth when it was his turn to terrorize and beguile. I can see that glimmer in his eye, the slight amusement playing across his upper lip. . .
They are now all ensconced in an intertwined trio of fur in the center of my bed . . . snoring ever so sweetly in their shallow feline cadences. Yes, of course, now I remember . . .
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