What doesn’t help is that Blackie can’t understand why Sydney doesn’t want to be his friend. Aren’t they part of the same pride? He still does the call, checking out where the other cats are, but she has quit her yowling as she comes in from the back because he’s more likely to answer her than I am.

Amazing! A photo of the three cats together. (Sydney is at the upper edge next to the deck chair.)

My daughter moved back in with her needy, spoiled, adolescent cat. Of course Sydney has been, um, tweaked. With good reason, since Stella appropriated Sydney’s space.

Meanwhile, another cat adopted us. We named him Blackie. When he first showed up, sleeping under the rose bushes and sneaking into the garage for food, he didn’t have much personality and that seemed like a good name.

Now that he’s been fed and no longer runs when we look his way, he does have a personality. Soft-serve would have been a good name. Somehow being petted relaxes him, so that he has to run over to the lawn and make a deposit on the grass.

Or we could have called him Faucet. The cat drools when he’s petted. It’s disgusting. Long drips all over our laps. He shook his head once when my daughter was petting him, and his spittle ended up on her face. Ick, ick, ick.

Stella

Last Thanksgiving our daughter temporarily shipped out her new companion while we visited, afraid we’d scold her for taking on a lifetime responsibility when she was still living like a, well, college student. As if we’d have been able to scold her when there was a two-month-old kitten to play with. Sheesh.

On our latest visit we were allowed to meet the new kitty. Her name is Stella, and she’s a Manx. I only saw a little bit of her, but she seems very sweet-tempered. She kept winding through the living room where people were sitting, but she wouldn’t let anyone touch her.