I used to joke that I was going to be that crazy old lady in the neighbourhood, the one with all the cats. I got Tommy in my thirties and Guido in my forties, but before I could add to our happy family in my fifties, I lost both my buddies. So no more cats.
Cats are thought to be independent, but my guys were very affectionate, seemed to know when I needed their feline version of a hug. They slept on the bed, sat by my side and were great companions. I miss them.
I seem to be friends with people who are cat lovers, some with multiples, or whole families (Carol). It seems you either love them, or you hate them. My Dad leaned more to the hate side, more of a dog person (as long as it belonged to someone else). He always felt the cats knew he didn’t like them, and that was the reason they seemed to gravitate to him and would never leave him alone. Their version of cat humour, I guess.
My Mom loved Tommy, said how much she’d miss him when she moved to Florida. I found a stuffed cat that looked just like him and sent it to her. When she died, he came back to me. He sits on my shelf and I’ve resisted giving him to any of the grandkids.
He’s my reminder of them both, and a quiet comfort when I see him sitting on the shelf.