Jack is our “baby” kitty and he’s going to be 6 years old this year. His name lends itself to nicknames — like “Jack in the Box” which is what he is in this picture. Jack likes to do weird things, like play with elastic, find lingerie and drag it around the house, and eat packing tape off of open boxes. We have two other cats, Ruby and Mickey, who defer to Jack as the alpha male of the household, even though Jack hasn’t been technically male since he was a baby.

My cats are somewhat freaked out that I’m not talking. They are even clingier than usual, which is ironically irritating. I like cats because, unlike dogs, they do their thing over there, while I do mine over here. Except my cats, perversely, like to invade my personal space with theirs. As I type this, Jack is sitting close enough to me that I can, with my fingers on the keyboard, stretch out the little finger on my right hand and pet him. His furry body spills over onto the computer keyboard and he keeps watch like my feline muse. I don’t know who is taking care of whom around here. I never do.