My family has a yellow and white cat, a rescue cat whose name is Twitch. Sad to say, Nemo and Twitch are not bosom buddies. In fact, they are definitely antagonistic. The one time they met, only an introductory meeting, mind you, was almost disastrous. Not to dwell on unpleasant subjects, but if you can imagine a small, yellow tornado jumping on cabinets, book shelves, and beds, dishes and books flying, with a black and white furry menace directly in hot pursuit, you get the picture.
But Twitch and I are pals. He talks to me. I talk to him. I always ask how he feels when I go inside their house. He answers with a positive note to his voice, meaning that he’s well, thanks, and how am I? Then, I ask if he’s hungry and he plaintively answers in the most pitiful tones. Tiring of this, he turns, pads into the living room, and expects me to follow. “Wait, wait,” I call. “I haven’t finished talking.” So, he turns around, comes back to me and looks up expectantly.
Twitch is an odd sort–well, not odd, maybe, but different. Each cat is different, having his own peculiarities. So, I guess I should have said peculiar. Twitch is not odd, but peculiar. He mostly keeps his own counsel. He is usually quiet, except, of course, for greeting people and for telling them that he has waited all day for food and is almost famished. (Actually, he has a bowl full of crunchies, but he waits for the delicious, moist food.) However, there are times when he reverts to an old ancestor. Very old and wild. He suddenly gallops through the house, jumping on furniture, bouncing off again, streaking around corners. Then, the inner tornado leaves and he’s docile again.
No one knows the mind of a cat, but I’m pretty sure Twitch can read mine. That’s all right. As I said, Twitch and I are–well, we’re friends and a friend instinctively knows what the other is thinking.
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