Sylvie is sitting on the floor by the couch and kneading my dress jacket. Her beautiful green eyes are almost shut closed, the silver tinged paws maintain measured rhythm, she is deep in a self-induced trance. In a couple of minutes she gives up the struggle to stay upright and lies down on the same jacket. Even though soon it will be covered with gray fluff, I have no heart to shoo her off. She worked so hard and slept just 17 hours and a half instead of the 18 that is normal for a cat. She must be terribly tired!
My cats are very spoiled. Every time one of us goes towards the kitchen, Chickie follows us there, parks himself solidly on our path and meows until we give in and feed him something that he likes. He seems to especially like seaweed. He thinks that it is something alive out of the sea, so he chomps on it wildly. We have to fight to keep our fingers away from his sharp little fangs. Taka just tears the seaweed and lets it float from high above Chickie's head.
Like I told you yesterday, Sylvie attacked my foot when I tried to keep her from running out at Goldie. She was visibly contrite all day after that, but today, when I started to say nice things to Goldie, she laid her ears back and gave me a seething look that could only mean: "What is it you are saying?! You are going to pay for it!"