God, even *I* can't handle that last post anymore. Subject change! Subject change! I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine hand flaps hand flaps deflecting humor GAH.
Moving right along. Some of you may be interested in hearing that yes, I still do have a cat.
And he is still as delightfully, clichedly cat-like as ever.
He will not hunt mice or stink bugs or crickets, but goddamn it, those motherfucking blind cords are gonna get themselves a vicious mauling and shredding. YOU SHALL NOT MENACE MY FAMILY, BLIND CORDS.
He's 14 now, which: Not a fan of thinking about that. His stomach is a lot more sensitive and he's gone from being a solid muscular tank of a cat to one who is...thin. Lightweight. More delicate and bony. He's old, basically. But still happy and cuddly and enjoying his life of non-stop leisure mixed with fresh sink water, uppity fancy canned food and the occasional catnip high.
He remains unfailingly patient with the children, especially Ike. (Who calls him "Cah." Usually moments before hurling his body over Poor Cah and grabbing fistfuls of fur.) He will seek out Noah and Ezra for more appropriate levels of affection, and will happily sit on their laps in front of the TV, vegging out and purring, like duuuudddddes, I am so happy you baby things calm down after awhile.
Also still alive and kicking, albeit barely:
Max doesn't care, though. Max still likes carrying him around, wandering the house in the early wee hours of the freaking shut up oh my god morning, meowing at the top of his goddamn lungs.
And (obviously) carefully arranging him on my bed or next to my pillow, like "I'll be joining you in a bit to walk across your face and sleep on your arms, but in case I'm late, here's my disgusting faceless Zombie Puppy. He can not-stare at you while you sleep."
What can I say? He's a giver, this Cah.