Since coming into my house, Jackie has proceeded to make it his own, as evidenced by the generous amount of white fur left all over black furnishings and flooring.
He absolutely has no respect for my personal space, but won’t stand for me invading his. Heaven forbid I lock the bathroom door, but six months down the line, I still can’t brush him or clip his claws without him grumbling about it.
He inhales his food with the eagerness of a Victorian orphan, forcing me to once assure a friend that I was not, in fact, starving my cat.
Every day I’m woken up by his face nuzzled to mine, purring loudly for food, at the first sound of my alarm going off.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.