My mother’s cat, Herbie, has perfected the gentle art of affection. He climbs onto her lap while she’s in the recliner, bows his head like a tiny monk, and lets mom kiss it. A peaceful ritual. Very Norman Rockwell. Very “this is how love is supposed to look.”
Naturally, I wanted the same thing from Whiskey.
What I got instead was teeth.
Whiskey doesn’t bow her head. She lunges. She nibbles. She play-bites. She treats affection like a contact sport. For a while, I thought, well, that’s that. She’s not Herbie. She’s her own strange little creature, operating by a rulebook written in invisible ink.
Then I discovered the secret.
My earlobe.
Somehow, in her mysterious kitten brain, my earlobe is the most comforting object in the house. She settles in, sucks, licks, gently bites, and purrs like she’s running a tiny engine. It goes on for hours. It’s oddly meditative, like feline sound therapy mixed with mild dental risk. She seems convinced she’s nursing, and I’ve decided not to ask too many questions.
This is her version of affection. Not the polite bow-and-kiss routine, but something a little feral, a little weird, and completely her own. She’s not entirely my mother’s cat, not entirely mine either. She exists somewhere in between, doing things her way, on her terms.
In a strange way, that feels familiar.
Today, there were no cigarettes. Just purring, earlobes, and another small, solid win.
I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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