I do not talk about my cat often enough. I adore him. I adopted him from animal control when he was two. He’s 48 in cat years. He’s named after a Beatle. He comes to me when I call him. He’s dog-like in his manner. If he’s taking too much room in the bed when we’re sleeping, I can push him around like a rag doll until I’m comfortable, and he’ll go right back to sleep in whatever spot I pushed him in. He cries incessantly when he wants something: food, to come in from the porch, to go out to the porch, to come in the bedroom, to be let out of the bedroom, etc. He’s pushy about being near us when we’re eating. If I’m on the couch eating dinner and he’s poking his head into my space, I’ll try to push him away, but he holds his ground and pushes back (what kind of cat pushes back when someone is trying to shoo him away? Most cats I’ve known would bolt). He’s big. He dwarfs our other cat (she gets a fraction of the attention because she’s more traditional in her cat behavior, which is to say she prefers to be left alone). I could put together a book using all the pictures I’ve taken of Paul over the years. I won’t though. I’ll simply put them here from time to time.


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