A couple of days ago I joked on Facebook that one of my love letter posts was going to be about furries. Though my next Valentine is for someone with fur, it thankfully is not about people dressing up as hedgehogs and bumping uglies because that would get me into a lot of trouble with my Aunty Camelia* “Hey! Do you mind? This is a family blog.”
You are the nicest, best cat that I’ve ever met in the whole wide world. I think this might be because you are not actually a cat. Your adorable, stubby tail gives you a bear-like appearance so you might be a Bearcat, in which case, I have amazing news- there’s a song written about you. However your habit of meeting me at the door when I arrive home leads me to believe that you might actually be a dog. Whiskey, your assumption that everyone wants to pet you further supports this theory. It’s as though every hour I spend at home is snuggle o’clock. What’s even better is that when I’ve had a rough day, you seem to sense this and up the cuddle ante by trying to share tiny chairs with me. We’re both going to pretend you don’t do this solely to eat my dinner. Again, you might be a dog.
I must confess though, your insistent need to clean me, makes me think you are in fact a cat. Or at the very least have OCD. I’ve never known another animal to painstakingly scrub my hands and sometimes my face with their tongue. This is partially why I won’t allow you to sleep in my room- I fear waking up, to you restyling my hair after your kitty senses conclude that it is too dirty.
Whiskey, my lovable friend, even your bad habits are endearing; the way you wash your dirty paws in the toilet after hunting mice in the dirt floored basement? So cute. Almost as cute as the muddy footprints you leave all over the bathtub afterwards. We won’t even touch on how amusing it is that you also bathe your filthy paws in people’s drinking glasses. A fact I learned only after living with you for two months. Whiskey, I also believe that “a peck of dirt never hurt”, that being said, I didn’t actually intend to consume a whole peck, you’ve helped me with that significantly. Regardless of how much soil you have me unintentionally imbibing, I love you Whiskey and to show this I shall do something special.
Seeing as you’ve eaten all the mice that once called this heritage house home, (And worked off the accompanying weight gain that eating an entire colony of rodents causes. Good job by the way.) for Valentine’s Day, I shall invite the furry pets from the neighbouring houses to come party here. You’re welcome.
The Great Unwashed
This post is dedicated to my roommate, owner and fellow lover of Whiskey. But only because Whiskey can’t read.
*Names have been changed to protect the identities of family members who are regular readers, the rest of you – take heed; I could spill the beans on that awkward family picnic and publish your real name if you don’t start reading my blog yesterday. Actually last month- look in the archives.
**Names have been changed because Whiskey is so lovely and unique that he’s almost a person and I change people’s names on this blog.