Resting side eye punctuated by points of grey fur, like a feline two face and I, her Batman she stalks and skulks and chirrups round the house, shadow to my lumbering frame, needing to be in my vicinity at all times, guarding my bathroom breaks, acting as a living cat barrier when I am dare shown affection from my wife, I belong to her, and no other cat nor human on this plane of reality, is going to tell her otherwise.
Put a hand out to stroke, and she will stare away and walk somewhere else. ‘Who are you to think you may touch this?’ she will say with her saunters.
But if I look over at her and call her any one of a thousand nicknames, she bounds and jumps and plants on sofa arm, or windowsill, or stairway landing and waits for my fingers to scritch two little head spots that require precise gentle force, and fill her with joy.
We have a bond, this cat and I, where I can ask questions and get responses, where I can be stern and she apologises, where I can be under a desk fiddling with wires and she pops under my chin and makes a noise like “I am here to help dad!” and I adore her.