He has a hard life, this cat of mine.
He would not go anywhere NEAR my bed until I dug out the duvet cover and went through all manner of contortions to get the down comforter INTO said cover. Wrestling a king-size comforter into a king-size cover all by myself was no fun at all, and I certainly did not manage to be very efficient about it. I'm glad no one took a video of me trying to accomplish this task. It would have been embarrassing.
Once all humans had vacated the bed this morning, Steve decided it was the perfect place for him to stretch out. Looks mighty cozy lying there, doesn't he?
His nickname is LB, which stands for "Little Bastard." We pronounce it with a Rhode Island accent for giggles. "L'il Bastid."
And once again, I will post one of my favorite William S. Burroughs quotes, from his essays about cats.
~This cat book is an allegory, in which the writer's life is presented to him in a cat charade. Not that the cats are puppets. Far from it. They are living, breathing creatures, and when any other being is contacted, it is sad: because you see the limitations, the pain and fear and the final death. That is what contact means. That is what I see when I touch a cat and find that tears are flowing down my face.~