I have seven cats.

I didn’t mean to have seven cats. It started with just one, Jesse, who had a taste for adventure, and my procrastination.

Well, the predictable happened. She apparently got laid a lot more than I ever did, because she gave birth to six kittens.

SIX! I had no idea a single cat could have that many at one go. And she started out as a small cat, too, so while she was pregnant she looked more like a black furry ball than a cat. I thought she’d explode!

Fortunately, I’ve gotten over my bout of procrastination, though now I have to find good homes for all these half-grown cats. And also fortunately, these six are much more well-socialized than their mother, who has more than a touch of neurosis.

One in particular is my favorite. He acquired the name Bear because he was the largest of the kittens when they were born. Today, I wonder if he ate another cat. He is enormous. And he thinks I am the greatest thing in the world. I am the Food Goddess.

His habit is to throw himself at my feet and grovel, hoping for a pet or a treat. When I step over him or dodge around him, he gets a running start, passes me, turns around, and throws himself down again. He’ll do this several times before giving up and just rubbing round my feet. But my favorite Bear trick is when he does this on linoleum. There he doesn’t bother to turn round; instead, he just slides into position like a pro baseball player sliding into home and when he’s in position, he pretends he’s always been there, waiting for me.

And then there is the general habit all six kittens have of eating hair specifically, mine, and only the hair that is still on my head. But that’s another topic entirely.