The cats are integral to my days and most of the components thereof.
Mornings of course. I have learned to awaken carefully lest I roll onto one of them.
Herbie is usually near my head; Guinness, in the curve of my legs. But not always. Sometimes they are spooned – the dark gray tabby and cream almost-Siamese like a furry yin yang symbol.
They have learned to wait for breakfast. Most days they stay on the bed while I shower and dress. When I’m ready to go downstairs, I announce, “breakfast time.” Guinness meows a response and jumps down, racing to the steps. Herbie often raises his head then resumes his slumber.
There are breakfast routines and lunch expectations.
During the day, our activities are synchronized. If I work at my computer, the cats perch in the study. If I work in the yard, I am supervised from window ledges. If I go out, they are there to greet me when I return.
It is no longer possible to keep an accurate cat toy inventory. Some are upstairs, some downstairs. Some in appropriate receptacles. Others, under furniture or the washing machine. I do try to play with them each day. If not before, then at bedtime.
Each day one or both of them does something that makes me laugh.
When I am ill or sad or scared, they spend more time with me, cuddle more closely.
We’ve been together ten years now.
Our relationship seems to be working.
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[Ironically, I filed for divorce just before my tenth wedding anniversary. That relationship didn't work.]