This is my girl, Olive, aka Olive Jones. She is my cat and, while she loves my husband, I am her person. We are the only girls in this family of a husband, son and boy cat.
For the most part, she is wherever I am. She's at my feet, or in the nearby window when I'm working on the computer. She's always stealing my seat, that red wicker one, in the kitchen.
She studies me when I'm getting ready, like she wants to know how to apply mascara for when she's grown up.
I can't quite sleep until she jumps on our bed and the heft of her settles in against my legs... or on top of my chest.
She's never accepted my son, even though he was born five years ago when she was two, and swats at him whenever she can. Still, he named one of his Webkinz "Olive."
If the boy cat Homer gets too close to me, she licks his head and then nibbles his ears and then bites his neck until he stamps his feet and leaves.
She enjoys a paw massage and looks like she's listening to something intently when you slowly rub her back along her spine.
She's not so much fat as her head is too little.
She loves treats, prefers to eat cat food off the floor rather than from the bowl, and is a super marathon sleeper.
She hunts down the belt of my bathrobe and tries to kill the shoelaces when she catches my husband tying his sneakers.
She prefers the indoors to the outdoors, but visits there a few times a day, particularly when it's warm and there are moths to be caught.
Now she's gone. Looks like a coyote got her this weekend, leaving only a bit of her tail, which we've buried in the back yard.
I really miss my friend.
Regular programming will resume tomorrow...