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Yesterday I had my first real cuddle with Spike the cat.
What you don't know about Spike is that he has more fur than any cat I know. Not the longest fur, for I know Madison, queen of the fluff, and I have seen pictures of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
merrycalliope's cat's fantastic cheek floof. Spike is a domestic shorthair, his fur is actually quite short.
But there is a lot of it. All of it. ALL THE FUR. He sheds year 'round, as indoor cats may do; he grows fur and sheds fur with abandon, in handfuls, in tufts and windfalls and halos of fluff.
I was reading downstairs on the magical couch (that we made!—and there's a magical table and bookshelf in that room now, too!) while Dee made pasta for dinner, and Spike came downstairs and asked to come up on the couch and then stared at me until I put my book aside and invited him to cuddle. And then he put his head on my shoulder and covered me in fur and we became family.
I had been wearing a black longsleeve shirt.
I'm pretty sure he coated at least one lung with cat fur, too.
It was absolutely worth it. When I first met Spike while I was visiting Dee in Seattle he was hesitantly curious and a bit standoffish, because he's a cat and I was a new person. Everyone wants to be the person that animals take to, but Casey the dog well fulfilled that need because Casey looooooves you, so I was patient—I figured Spike'd warm up to me or not, and there was plenty of time to find out. When I got here Spike was holed up in Dee's room, sleeping and recovering from the drive to Portland and the introduction to a new house. He's an old cat; change is hard. So these last few days, for all patience (mine and hers), have been a relief: to see Spike investigating and moving about and discovering his own perfect windowsill (big enough to sit on, low enough to get on, in the living room and generally kept cracked, overlooking the front porch, street, and half dozen outdoor cats that walk by), to see him eating better and acting much more engaged, and on this wholly selfish note to see that he likes me! he really likes me! and he thinks I give good cuddles, too.
Which is the other reason that I tend to be pretty patient if animals take a while to adopt me—the ones that have really, really like me, and I only have so many cuddles to spread around.
He hung out on the couch when I went to change my shirt, and during dinner (on the couch, yes—it's magical in part because it's the only seating we have right now) he curled up under a blanket, head on my leg, and took a nap.
So life is good, my darlings. Life is good.
What you don't know about Spike is that he has more fur than any cat I know. Not the longest fur, for I know Madison, queen of the fluff, and I have seen pictures of
merrycalliope's cat's fantastic cheek floof. Spike is a domestic shorthair, his fur is actually quite short.But there is a lot of it. All of it. ALL THE FUR. He sheds year 'round, as indoor cats may do; he grows fur and sheds fur with abandon, in handfuls, in tufts and windfalls and halos of fluff.
I was reading downstairs on the magical couch (that we made!—and there's a magical table and bookshelf in that room now, too!) while Dee made pasta for dinner, and Spike came downstairs and asked to come up on the couch and then stared at me until I put my book aside and invited him to cuddle. And then he put his head on my shoulder and covered me in fur and we became family.
I had been wearing a black longsleeve shirt.
I'm pretty sure he coated at least one lung with cat fur, too.
It was absolutely worth it. When I first met Spike while I was visiting Dee in Seattle he was hesitantly curious and a bit standoffish, because he's a cat and I was a new person. Everyone wants to be the person that animals take to, but Casey the dog well fulfilled that need because Casey looooooves you, so I was patient—I figured Spike'd warm up to me or not, and there was plenty of time to find out. When I got here Spike was holed up in Dee's room, sleeping and recovering from the drive to Portland and the introduction to a new house. He's an old cat; change is hard. So these last few days, for all patience (mine and hers), have been a relief: to see Spike investigating and moving about and discovering his own perfect windowsill (big enough to sit on, low enough to get on, in the living room and generally kept cracked, overlooking the front porch, street, and half dozen outdoor cats that walk by), to see him eating better and acting much more engaged, and on this wholly selfish note to see that he likes me! he really likes me! and he thinks I give good cuddles, too.
Which is the other reason that I tend to be pretty patient if animals take a while to adopt me—the ones that have really, really like me, and I only have so many cuddles to spread around.
He hung out on the couch when I went to change my shirt, and during dinner (on the couch, yes—it's magical in part because it's the only seating we have right now) he curled up under a blanket, head on my leg, and took a nap.
So life is good, my darlings. Life is good.
