Just recently, I was working at the kitchen table and Lucille (I know) kept coming to me with a mew. She is a hefty – I mean healthy – tortoise shell beauty with soulful green kitty eyes. She looked up at me and spoke loudly again in feline then streaked toward the bedroom. Before I could react, she was streaking back to the kitchen with more mews (increasingly soulful eyes). It hit me . . . she was saying “it’s bedtime!”

“But I don’t wanna go to bed!” I cried. Her sister Petey sauntered in, an anxious Russian Blue, and began zooming interference, causing me to totally lose concentration. Actually the sisters politely detest one another even after 11 years together in the house, eating and drinking out of the same bowls. I envision little change on the horizon.

Lucille swatted at Petey, eliciting a slow crying jag and more zooming. Suddenly, the conspirators looked at one another and streaked toward the bedroom with nary another word. It’s times like this that I’m afraid they are plotting my demise. Did I forget to refill the fuzzy fish’s belly with catnip? Was the water stale? I’m probably still foggy from the spring forward event in March.

Actually, Lucille and Petey have given me less trouble than any human in my entire lifetime. I know there are litter boxes to clean and vet bills to pay but all in all, they are a comfort and a blessing. Most of the time.

I do sometimes wish they could pour their own food or sweep out the hair cuddling in the corners of the rooms. But I’m dreaming, I know. We are simply three gracefully aging ladies living mostly peaceably together in a very tiny but cozy home. What more could I ask for? I’m thinking about purchasing a leash so we can all take a daily constitutional but we three will have to talk about it more seriously closer to the summertime.

Yes—I did go to bed. Lucille curled up near my pillow and Petey sat sphinx-like, manning the end of the bed. I felt safe. Life is good, my friends.