My cat is no help in the garden.
He doesn't warn me when ants crawl up my pants.
He doesn't know a weed from a seed.
He sleeps while I sweat and sweat.
He wants to play and I shoo him away
before he attacks me with his claws
and snaps his jaws.
My cat doesn't love me.
He loves my hat.
Bear is a frequent photo bomber, this time squinting his eyes to convey the importance of the message. Framed with blooming Iris, it’s pointless to resist the wisdom of beauty.
I’m in a love/hate relationship with my cats. I love the way they follow me around outside, and watching them from the kitchen, eat and play around their cat house. I love the way they catch mice and other pests. But I hate the way they dig in my kitchen boxes, like my whole garden is just their personal cat box. They could go anywhere in the great outdoors, but the fresh dirt in my carefully tended garden, that’s what they want. They dig in there, and get their paws all dirty, and then they climb on top of my car and leave little paw prints all over my windshield.
These two brothers are named The Bear and King Arthur. My husband brought home a littler of four from his friend’s house, which we had collectively named Crystal, Tiger and the two above. They were outdoor cats from the beginning, and Crystal (which my son named for his sister) and Tiger (which my husband named for me, a tiger in the Chinese zodiac) didn’t survive. But these two brothers in a basket have the names of his father, known as Bear, and my father… mmmm