Sometimes I think I was a cat in a past life. Since I’ve been alive, I’ve had 4 total, 2 at a time. Whenever one died, we’d mourn for an appropriate period of time, then adopt another. After my parents’ cats both passed away, it was time for me and my sister to choose kittens. She chose first, adopting a black manx (like a panther without a tail), and named him Merlin. I chose second, adopting a blue-grey Maine coon, and named him Pwyll.
As he’s grown up, he’s learned to act like a Pwyll.
Though I’m not at the age where I’m ready to raise children, I feel about our cats the way I would about my children. For me, they are like my children: they are living, sentient animals who thrive on love and attention. Though they are more able to take care of themselves than human children, cats need family, too. I can’t think what would happen to me if something happened to Pwyll, I’ve seen him grow up from a teeny kitten.
I feel like I have a relationship with cats that a lot of people don’t have or understand: I connect with them sometimes better than I do with my peers (I’m not socially impaired, don’t worry.) When they do things that confuse or annoy people, I don’t mind. We’ll never truly understand other species, let alone our own.
Pwyll’s a psycho, and maybe it’s the way he was raised (I swear I’m not psycho), but I don’t mind. Sometimes he’s intimidating to me, but rarely.