My household recently adopted a cat. The cat had hung around my room-mate’s work site for months, begging for food and sleeping on the doorstep (the work site was a residential remodel). The cat had no collar, but was not in bad shape. The roommate’s boss told him to get the cat off of the work site, one way or another. So… yeah. Yet another addition to the menagerie.
When the cat arrived, all the other roommates and I argued over what to name her. Some argued for ‘numb-nuts’, some argued for ‘cat’, some argued for long complicated names that I can’t remember and wouldn’t bother printing if I did.
I just called her sweetheart, because it’s something I call anyone whose name I can’t remember.
And she is mellow, sweet, and does something no cat of mine has ever done before (and I’ve owned many) – she sleeps every night curled up next to me, usually snuggled up to my belly.
She has this interesting habit. She likes to drag around a stuffed animal of mine, a miniature siberian tiger that was lying in the room when I moved in. She grabs it by the scruff of the neck and drags it all over the house, making this absurd little mewling noise.
Imagine my shock when I pick the cat up in the middle of the dragging routine to give it some love for being so cute, and discover a rapidly retreating, how to say, tumescence?
Turns out the dragging was latent mating behavior. I guess ‘Sweetheart’ has a thing for platinum blondes.
So I have a male cat named Sweetheart. @#$!&.
Par for the god-damned course.