My all-time most beloved cat, as my husband can attest, is the youngest of my three, Little Cat Z, or as she is affectionately known, ZZ.
ZZ is not like any cat I've ever met. I've read that some breeds bond with whoever they perceive as their primary caretaker, and in ZZ's case, that was me. She took to sleeping on my shoulder as a kitten, when she was still small enough to fit there. Now, she prefers to settle in the crook of my elbow (either arm will do), draping her paws over my biceps as she gazes up into my eyes, purring all the while. She tends to be talkative, throaty answers escaping her furry little mouth in response to my ramblings. I'm not sure how much she understands of what I say, but she listens intently in spite of it. She'll sit on my arm like that for hours, not caring that my lap is generally occupied by a MacBook Air, my arms tensing up and down in rhythm with the keystrokes. She is a true writing companion, and certainly makes all these hours of solitude more enjoyable. (If that doesn't make me sound like a crazy cat lady, I'm not sure what would. Hmmm.)
ZZ is a great cat. Most of the time. The rest of the time, she's an asshole. She loves to instigate my 4.5-pound Pomeranian, Samus, by jumping on my nightstand. That's all it takes to get the dog all riled up. Just as with humans, she's inclined to overreact to something that really doesn't matter in the first place, but because it's out of her control, she has to make a big deal about it. It's not so bad when this happens in the middle of the afternoon, but at 4 a.m.? I'm not so great at being woken up abruptly in the middle of the night, as it's usually taken me longer than I would have liked to fall asleep in the first place. I've tried to initiate a peace treaty between the two species, but it will not be had. They are not, at present, seeking compromise.
Another, newer talent of ZZ's is digging through piles of books that happen to be lying around the house. It doesn't matter if it's two books or ten, she sweeps her paw under the front cover and wap-wap-waps it back until the book spills free of its brothers. She then moves onto the next paperback, dig-dig-digging with her paw. I am not one to raise my voice, although the other morning I did sit up straight in bed, point my finger right at her, and yell, "ZZ, no! Get out of my books!" She froze for a moment, her eyes locking with mine before she gave into the severity of my threat, and sprinted out of the room, plumed tail bobbing behind her. That's why I assumed that, when I encountered a scatter of books when I came home from work this afternoon, the culprit was most assuredly the cat in question.
Yet here we are. I have since piled the books neatly once more, adding another to it that just came in the mail today. I suppose I will be straightening them again in the morning, but only time will tell...