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My cat likes to squeak. And chew on me. And play tag (I’m always ‘it’). She’s a brilliant little bugger. She once fished her harness out of my top drawer with her paw and dropped it on my floor, since her vocals hadn’t done the trick. Her vocals… I didn’t know there were critters out there as talkative and sassy as me.

She’s a tabby, with a profound kink in her tail and in her personality. We think she’s part Manx. That would explain a lot. The Scots are feisty, and so is she. You know the phrase “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you?” She ignores that rule. I’ll pick her up and she’ll chew on my shoulder, all ferocious-like. I’ll stick my hand in her fluffy tummy and she’ll wrap her front paws around me and bite me.

Her favorite past time is dashing back and forth on the top of the cupboards (her favorite past time used to be getting stuck in trees and having me rescue her). She has one corner of the counter that belongs to her, and from there she can get atop the cupboards. She’s just out of reach, which suits her. Sometimes I surprise her though and stand on top of a chair, and then she runs like her tail’s on fire for the top of the fridge.

She’s my little rambunctious bundle of joy.

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