Not My Favourite

As parents, it’s important not to play favourites with our children. That goes for our furry children too. I don’t know whether my cats can actually understand me when I tell them I love them, but it doesn’t matter.

Sometimes, I’ll get a little silly and tell Edison he’s my favourite boy cat, or Madeline that she’s my favourite Calico. I’ll tell Felicia she’s my favourite purr box. I only have one boy cat and one Calico. And Felicia has simply the loudest purr I’ve ever heard.

But the truth is Isobel isn’t my favourite anything.

If I’m generous, she’s my favourite spitting, snarling ball of neuroses making everyone’s life just that much less pleasant. I still love her, but sometimes it’s a challenge.

A few minutes ago, she was sitting quietly curled up next to me on the couch while I worked. Edison walked up and suddenly Isobel hissed, jumped up, and knocking over my beer proceeded to chase Edison across the room. What was his crime? Maybe he looked at her funny. I spent the next ten minutes trying to get beer out of the carpet and finding a zipping pillow case to wash some of Molly’s stuffed animals that got drunk.

When we return from Ireland Isobel will begin taking Prozac with the hope it will calm her down a bit. It really freaks me out that she’ll be on mood altering drugs, but then her mood’s already kind of altered. Poor Edison has the bald spots and scabs to prove it.