Milo is our family’s lazy orange tabby cat. He lounges on the warm concrete of our patio in the sun while the chickens eat the grasshoppers. Most days, he watches them peck the ground. He has no interest in chasing them. Milo just lies on the porch and eats Meow Mix, and only Meow Mix. My dad often jokes that if we ever bought another type of cat food Milo would starve to death. He might be right.
Whitman is one of our other cats, a frisky black and white beaut nearly four months old. He mostly goes by Walt, and my friends find it curious that I expect a kitten to understand poetry. Walt is cuddly and soft, but he likes to bite, and it annoys the cat nip out of my brother’s pumpkin colored minx, Noodles. Noodles has elonged hind legs and a cotton bud where his tail should be, and a stomach the size of my home state. When Walt pounces on him we laugh, expecting Noodles to fall over and roll with his bouncing belly. Walt also jumps on Milo, but Milo just eats Meow Mix.
I wonder what grounded habits I have that are laughable to other people. Like Milo refuses to eat anything else, am I, too, stubborn in my faith of rituals?
I only write in pen. I always put my pants on with my left foot first. Wearing socks with seams that I can feel in my tennis shoes upsets my day. Being late makes me pull my hair out.
To me, these are just things. My mom argues that they are just annoying. I think Milo would understand though.
It’s funny to me that I can relate to a cat.