Loki is the latest in a long string of cats who have chosen to allow me to care for them. My late cat, Pumpkin, had not been gone long before I got an email from a friend whose daughter was moving back home, bringing with her a large surplus of pets. After a few hours of hiding in the basement, Loki entered the family and proceeded to tell the resident dog, Winston, who was in charge now.
Loki lacks the bad habits of Pumpkin. She seems content with staying inside, eating (perhaps a bit too often), sleeping, and sitting behind the couch, leaping at birds visiting the window feeder. I've learned to ignore the "thump, crunch, thump" as she appears from nowhere like a jack-in-the-box, thumps the window, and falls back down to her hidden lair. I no longer have to worry about hiding food on the counters, table and stove from a marauding feline - her stubby little legs prevent her from jumping that far. Unlike the companionable but aloof Pumpkin, she hears the sound of a body hitting the couch or chair in her sleep, and in short order is in place to share a warm lap. A hassock by my desk allows her to sleep near me as I work, safe from dog harassment.
Her only fault is her lack of a good internal clock. If I wake up in the night for any reason, she decides it's breakfast time. First the loud purring or meowing in her one-note voice, that sounds like she has just suffered a dreadful tragedy. Then the licking. Any available spot of skin is targeted - if you've never experienced having your elbow sandpapered at 3 am, it's not something you'll forget easily. My response (hiding under the covers), brings the next phase - tap. Tap, tap, tap. A gentle, persistent whacking begins until I give up and stagger to the kitchen for a spoon and some Fancy Feast. Pumpkin preferred the method of jumping on the dresser and knocking things over, or rattling the mini-blinds. Either way, my sleep has been disturbed and the cat once again reigns supreme.
