The house has a long tradition of cats; and, while I have no fondness for outdoor cats, I do like our indoor cats.*  Without further ado, therefore: A and B, brother and sister, A is the one on the left.  A more typical pose for them is curled up under the dining table, immediately above the furnace; but it makes for a poor picture, since you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

They are almost, but not quite impossible to pat; you certainly cannot pick them up; and a guest is unlikely to even see them.  On the other hand, they like to know exactly where we are, get terribly bothered if we leave unexpectedly, wait to eat dinner until we are eating although B requests that I put it down so she can check it earlier, and A firmly believes the lawnmower attempts to eat Jamie and will come find me if I am in and request that I save him, now. 

*Not least, I admit, because they are a practical solution to the mice, even more so because they are terribly ineffective at the actual rodent dispatch bit, giving me plenty of opportunity to remove the critter before they attempt to eat it.  My dislike for outdoor cats partly stems from this indoor usefulness.