Years ago, pre-kids, we adopted an orange tabby cat whom we named Charlie who never much was flustered or dumfounded. EG called him Mr. Kitty.
I am convinced that he was a reincarnated fraternity boy. Late into the night, he'd come alive.
"Wow-wow," he'd say. "Wow-wow." And he'd take off at a full-out run, around the living room, into the hall, leaning into the curve into our bedroom, sliding in a skid at the foot of our bed, then jumping on the bed and zipping up EG's legtothetorsoandlaunchinghimselfoffhisshoulderandbackouttothesofa.
"Whaughk," EG would sit bolt upright. "What the..."
He'd lie back down, muttering Spanish language profanities about the gatto under his breath, and go back to sleep.
A few hours later, it would start again. "Wow-wow," from the living room . . . What amazed me was that EG never seemed to hear it coming--I did, and I wasn't the one who was constantly startled by the assault.
Eventually, when Rocky was in his really difficult years, Charlie started licking himself bald and hiding in the basement. When he stopped his late night marauding, I knew there was a problem, probably depression or stress, and I found him a home with an elderly neighbor. His fur grew back, and he spent hours entertaining her, but he never once "Wow-wow"ed at her house.
Last summer, we adopted a cat for Kiki, who named the tawny tabby cat Amber. She is reserved, coming down to drink water and perhaps deign to let us stroke her one time only. she became known as Amber Kitty. A few months later, EG informed me we "needed" another cat. "We do not NEED another cat," I told him.
"Yes, we do."
"You may want another cat, but we don't need one." I only thought I got the last word.
So we went to the shelter and got a kitten, another tabby. He is sweet and loving and has adopted Nita, of all people, as his special human. She will carry him around under his armpits, and he purrs as his hindquarters swing. If she lies down on the sofa to rest, he is right there with her. And he doesn't talk much except for a squeak here and there. The kids named him Pancho, and of course he is now Pancho Kitty.
He is still kittenish and playful: chasing and attacking his tail, climbing into the empty fish tank and crouching there, quite pleased at the illusion none of us can see him, and getting into things, playing with an odd assortment of items which range from a balled up candy wrapper to a gold button from a blazer. Today he got up and politely sat on a chair at the table, only his eyes and ears visible, focusing on the plate in front of him so his eyes were crossed. I laughed at him before shooing him away. And every morning, he goes with me into the bathroom while I shower, biting my wiggling toes as I brush my teeth. And he will make a pest of himself for Mexican food, the hotter the better.
He makes us laugh no matter how sad or stressful the day. So, yes, we needed that cat.