I love cats

At least, I love MY cat. His name is Rocky (he had that name when we got him from the Humane Society), and he's an orange short-haired tabby who grew up in the basement of a prison. We rarely call him by his name, opting to refer to him as Rock-steady, Rock-me-gently, Rockster, Rockaroonie, Rockafeller, Rockaliscious, Rock-star, Rock-man, or just Rocks (I also call him "Rockstar the Rapscallion"). He's a fairly tolerant adolescent, letting me train him to be a shoulder cat and putting up with my constant inability to keep from petting him when he's sleeping. One of the things I love most about him is his abnormally long features. He has a long face, very long legs, and a tail that is longer than the rest of his body.



Rocky's personality is unsurpassed by any other cat I've met. He's a freak, like everyone else in my household. He will run across the room, tag your leg, and run away before you realize that the orange streak in the corner of your eye was him. He will roost upon any high surface (chair backs, laundry baskets, tables & shelves), wait till you pass, then snag your clothes with a lazy claw to get your attention. He sleeps in the most bizarre positions, leading one to question how he could possibly be comfortable. But when me and my hubby are curled up on the couch watching TV, he will climb up on top of us, purr, and watch with us: another member of the family. He's cute, interesting, and has a mind of his own. He's one of us.

It should probably say a lot that my first post about my life in my blog was about my cat. :)