This time of night is both a blessing and a curse. I have peace and quiet, which helps with focusing on writing, and I definitely need some sort of mental exercise to check my brain out for the night so I can sleep.
However, after spending all day talking to strangers, I want to talk to people I know – but everyone, including my better half, have gone to bed. I find myself having one sided (sometimes two-sided) conversations with the fur-kids, particularly Sylvester, who I’m pretty sure got a dog’s soul at the depot. He is also afraid of his own shadow, and everyone else’s. He sure is cute though.
Then there is Lolita – who is five pounds of raw, unbridled fury. Of our three cats, she has the most attitude (so much so she once found her head pinned to the floor by our oldest – and largest – cat for a solid twenty seconds after swatting him in the face). She looks innocent enough, but make no mistake – she’s a killer. When she’s not hanging out in the bathtub for no apparent reason, anyway.
Then there is Mr. Fuzzy Bloomers aka Phantom, who is now sixteen years old, and was my boyfriend’s cat long before I knew him. He’s acclimated pretty well, he is a laid back old fella – except when Sylly steals his food. Which happens often. He has a hard time getting up onto furniture because he has arthritis – which is what makes this picture such a gem. It isn’t as portait-esque as the other two, because he was trying to climb back out because I guess the hooman wasn’t supposed to know he could climb up there?
Also, I have no idea how we got lucky enough to end up with three tuxedo cats that were all rescues. I just know that despite the scuffling that sometimes goes on at this time of night, I love these little floofs.