Our cat Mr. Peterson is nearly twelve years old. He has cataracts and spends a lot of time either curled up sleeping or crouched on the edges of shelves and arm rests like a forlorn gargoyle. I love him a lot because he's a sweet kitty gentleman, and because he's been part of my life for over ten years. Petey's been there through my twenties, my first years teaching, and then my wedding and graduate school. And he's still here, two houses and two children later. I love his giant paws and that he's skittish and shy during the day, and then at night, he hops on the couch beside me and rubs his sleek face against my arm or thigh or lap, ready for affection.
And Marley loves him, too. She calls him Pete-Pete and thinks he's fun and playful and hilarious. (She's never had a kitten, so she doesn't know any better.) Her latest favorite thing to do with Petey, the cat she's convinced loves her best of all, is tease him with about a string made of about a dozen lacing card laces knotted together. And I'll admit, he usually gives her a couple excited and then even more half-hearted pounces when she drags the string around the kitchen.
I'm glad Marley and Rudy are growing up with pets, and I'm glad Mr. Peterson's got a six-year-old fan who, right at this moment, is stroking his head and scratching his ears, and whispering to him gently about what a good kitty he is.
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