We used to have a dog. He was there when the Younger Human (where the hell did he go, anyway?) brought me home; I admit, at first I was terrified of him, but he made it clear right from the bat that he didn’t intend to turn me into kitty cacciatore, so we kept our separate peace. He fulfilled his position of being the family gas bag, and since they were so absorbed in the vast quantities of fur he shed all over the place, they rarely noticed how much I was leaving on their clothes and furniture. He left me alone, so all in all he was alright for a dog.

No, cats and dogs don’t always hate each other. We can co-exist, and I understand that my feline predecessor treated the dog as if he was her own child. A little weird, but whatever.

He’s gone, too, now, though I’m pretty sure he’s not off with the Younger Human; my People can talk about the Younger Human in the present tense, but they talk about the dog with sadness tinged voices.

This afternoon the Woman was looking at a picture of herself and the dog while I bathed on the window perch in her office. She glanced over at me and said “I still miss my Booger Bear, Max.”

I could point out that she has her species a little mixed up, but I won’t; she did seem genuinely sad and in need of something. I can never be sure what ‘something’ it is that humans need, but they seem to enjoy it if I spend a few minutes on their laps, so I abandoned the bath and jumped up in her lap and did the cute thing—you know, standing up on my back legs and rubbing my face against hers. It’s demeaning, but what the hell, it does seem to make her happy.

I gave a little purr and let her pet me a little, and didn’t bite when she rubbed my tummy (people, get a clue, we bite because we hate that…)

She seemed happier after that.
I even got fed my dinner 45 minutes early.

It’s something to remember; tolerate a little of their fawning in exchange for food.
Works for me.
But I don’t love them.

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