Dolly Gee Squeakers, formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers, lay in the middle of the room, pressing the love of her life to her pretty, whiskered face.
More than the Virginia Slims, more than betting on college basketball, more than trotting from the front door to her supper dish by way of greeting you at the end of the work day, Dolly Gee loves a bundle of feathers attached to a string attached to a stick.
The bundle of feathers refuses to speak on the subject.
Dolly beams up at me, the light from the overhead fan causing the teeth in her mouth to gleam whitely. A stately mix of Siamese, tabby, and, perhaps, speed bump, Dolly Gee is house cat extraordinaire, an animal with no expectations outside of five squares a day, to accompany to you to the bathroom each and every time you visit it, and to sit next to you on the couch gazing at you adoringly with the hopes that, perhaps, a slice of ham will fall from the ceiling.
And to wrap her loving, be-clawed paws around a bundle of feathers.
From my end of the couch, I grin down at the silly long-hair. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you, Squeaks?”
Liza Bean Bitey, five pounds of striped mischief and dedicated fly fisher, pads into the room warily. She sits down and casually licks her hind end.
She sits up primly. “That cat has no dignity,” she says.
I open my mouth, then close it.
Liza Bean knows where I sleep.
And it’s all lost on Dolly Gee, who smiles dreamily, and pulls the feathered toy tightly against her pretty, whiskered face.