Kitty Bob is our family cat. My two sons and husband love this cat—I mean they really LOVE it. I like the cat. Therein lies the rub.
From my oldest son, I hear: “Mom, the cat is trying to get your attention. Pet the cat, he thinks you don’t love him.”
“Honey, look at the cat. The little kitty wants you to pet him. Isn’t he cute?” says my husband, known in some circles as the Cat Whisperer.
“Mom look, Kitty Bob loves you,” my youngest son will say, trying to get me to engage with the feline.
I am not taken in by these things. I know what the cat wants. The cat wants to be fed. All the time. The cat does not want me to pet him. He knows I am the keeper of the Meow Mix, and the only reason he rubs against my legs is to get me to feed him. It is ironic, that the only person in the house not in love with the cat is the only one who feeds him.
I feel deficient sometimes, like I am missing a gene or something.