Attempt number one involved scooping Edmund up and trying to pop a pill in his mouth. Attempt number one ended with Jeff bleeding from two long, ugly scratches on his forearm and Edmund sulking in another room.

Call the vet. Lovely, practical, unruffled vet. "We have a problem."

"He's stressed, so don't try to bring them in today. Tomorrow morning, crush the remaining pill and give it to them with a treat or some food, and maybe that will work."

"All right."

All these years later and I realize that I would have been desperately unhappy if I had chosen to share my life with someone who was not also under the thrall of the written word. Eventually, the pull of words would have won, requiring me to set up some portion of the house that was devoted to stillness, no matter how little the other inhabitants of the house understood.

Proof positive that anyone seeking the rottenest of the felines doesn't have to go much further than the foyer of my house. As usual, the little darlings (and I say that with all the latest in dripping-sarcasm technology) have been extraordinarily helpful with all house chores and activities, ranging from reading to room-painting.

(Click on a photo to get a larger version.)

Think you're going to be the only one sitting in that chair? Think again:

There's ample evidence indicating that I haven't been the alpha being in this (feline-controlled?) house for quite some time. Last night, when I walked past the kitty perch, Edmund, in his usual place, batted round, innocent eyes at me. He rolled from his side to his back, presenting his belly and all four paws in the air.

After scooping up, the twelve-pound cat nestles quiet, quiescent, in the crook of my left arm. After twenty minutes of fussing, complaining, plaintive mewing, and other guerrilla tactics that amount to nothing more than human harassment, he has finally gotten what he wanted.

I can't reach the keyboard, but from the pillow of my shoulder, the two red-gold eyes flutter closed. The paws lying limp at the base of my neck shift and begin to gently knead my chest. His eyes and tail droop in unison, until he is a limp, nearly-sleeping cat being cuddled with his belly and back feet pointing toward the ceiling. His paw pads are pink, silken. The fine, soft individual tufts of white fur between them flow and bend in the gentle currents of air.

Recent events have forced a bit of discussion with the Feline Overlords, most of which involved my making intelligible sounds in the form of requests, all of which were ignored or drowned out by the sound of insistent purring.