He has many names, some are too rude to mention and some are just plain silly. He was named 'Owen' after my dad but after that there is no real resemblance.
His demanding ways drive us all mad and his desperate cries can be heard from one end of the house to the other. He is a cat that thinks he is human (or is it the other way around?).
Over the last five years he has acquired his own furniture, soft furnishings, beds and bowls. If we ever got divorced I have no doubt he would sue me for catimony.
Should a pet be a pet, should he know his place and live around us? He cries and we answer with tasty dishes and a ready warmed lap. He is arrogant, lazy and keeps his nails manicured on the best chairs. He sits on people who don't like cats, turns his nose up at fresh chicken and would not be seen dead without the latest designer collar. When he's in he wants to be out and when he's out he will cry at every window until someone lets him in and he can spoil a dinner party with one lick of his balls.
Has this creature any redeeming features? Are we giving house room to Beelzebub's son, a feline usurper, a cat burglar?
No. This son of Bast has chosen us to be his family and he loves us. I could not imagine a cold night without him warming my toes, a sunny day when he stretches perfectly in the sun or a time when he has not known when I am upset and need some fur to cry into.
Strangely we belong together.
And yes, of course he is black - did you expect any other?