Adorable Cat Quotes

Where's Magnus?" he said. AS he looked toward the kitchen, Clary saw a bruise on his jaw, below his ear, about the size of a thumbprint. "Alec!" Magnus came skidding into the living room and blew a kiss to his boyfriend across the room. Having discarded his slippers, he was barefoot now. His cat's eyes shone as he looked at Alec.

Green-eyed monsters,” said Magnus, and grinned. He deposited Chairman Meow on the ground, and the cat moved over to Alec, and rubbed against his leg. “The Chairman likes you.” “Is that good?” “I never date anyone my cat doesn’t like,” Magnus said easily, and stood up. “So let’s say Friday night?” A great wave of relief came over Alec. “Really? You want to go out with me?” Magnus shook his head. “You have to stop playing hard to get, Alexander. It makes things difficult.” He grinned.

Cats are not adoring like dogs. They don’t care. They can never be relied upon to shore up a human ego. They go their way, do their thing, are not subservient and will never apologise. No one has ever come across a cat apologising and if a cat did, it would patently be obvious it was not being sincere.

Chapter 1. He adored New York City. He idolized it all out of proportion...no, make that: he - he romanticized it all out of proportion. Yeah. To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin.' Uh, no let me start this over. 'Chapter 1. He was too romantic about Manhattan, as he was about everything else. He thrived on the hustle bustle of the crowds and the traffic. To him, New York meant beautiful women and street-smart guys who seemed to know all the angles...'. Ah, corny, too corny for my taste. Can we ... can we try and make it more profound? 'Chapter 1. He adored New York City. For him, it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. The same lack of individual integrity that caused so many people to take the easy way out was rapidly turning the town of his dreams in...' No, that's going to be too preachy. I mean, you know, let's face it, I want to sell some books here. 'Chapter 1. He adored New York City, although to him it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. How hard it was to exist in a society desensitized by drugs, loud music, television, crime, garbage...' Too angry, I don't want to be angry. 'Chapter 1. He was as tough and romantic as the city he loved. Behind his black-rimmed glasses was the coiled sexual power of a jungle cat.' I love this. 'New York was his town, and it always would be.

Before anyone can ask anything, I empty my game bag and it becomes 18:00 - Cat Adoration. Prim just sits on the floor weeping and rocking that awful Buttercup, who interrupts his purring only for an occasional hiss at me. He gives me a particularly smug look when she ties the blue ribbon around his neck.

Nu toti barbatii vor iubi asa. Nu toti barbatii stiu sa alinieze cuvinte care sa devina versuri spre a vorbi despre femeia pe care o iubesc - dar le simti privirea si un fel anume de a se purta cu ea care-ti spune tot. Ii ador pe barbatii care vad la femeilor lor amanunte sublime, care observa mici si rafinate detalii pe care le iubesc ca pe intreg. In afara de sani, fund, picioare si buze, femeile norocoase au privilegiul, din partea barbatilor lor, de a fi admirate pentru felul in care-si trec mana prin par...pentru cat sunt de frumoase cand gatesc si fredoneaza balade rock...pentru pielea si aroma lor...sau pentru zambetul fierbinte cu care-i intampina mereu...pentru felul ciudat in care se ung cu creme si mirodenii de femeie...sau pentru glezna impecabila..pentru modul adorabil in care stau bosumflate superficial, asteptand sarutul de impacare...pentru linistea din glas...sau pentru tinuta lor cand merg pe strada...pentru felul in care converseaza cu prietenii si pentru bunatatea lor...pentru cat de sexy sunt cu samponul in ochi...pentru cat de fragile sunt cand plang...pentru cat de frumos isi iubesc barbatii si cum stiu sa aiba grija de ei...

Catharine’s office had two plants, three chairs, two desks, one hutch, six personal photos in standing frames, one of those clichéd motivational posters on the wall that had two crows tearing out the insides of a reasonably sized forest cat with the cheesy inspirational caption, “Unremittingly, you must stare into the sun,” and a clay paperweight most likely made by Catharine’s daughter (it was signed by your seed in adorable small-child handwriting).

Still adore me?” he said into that kiss, his tone husky. A tone between lovers, between mates, between a man and the only woman he had ever wanted. “Too much,” was her response. “I only feel whole when I’m with you. Does that make me weak?” The cat stretched out inside him as she pressed kisses along his jawline, down his neck. “If you’re weak, then so am I.” He could function without her but in the way a machine functions. His heart, his soul, he had given to her a long time ago.

Wow,” the bobcat muttered from his desk. “Your sister’s right. Your legs really are skinny.” Toni briefly thought about swiping all the cat’s crap off his desk, but that wasn’t something she’d do to anyone who wasn’t one of her siblings. But that was the beauty of being one of the Jean-Louis Parker clan . . . sometimes you didn’t have to do anything at all, because there was a sibling there to take care of it for you. “It must be hard,” Kyle mused to the bobcat. “One of the superior cats. Revered and adored throughout history as far back as the ancient Egyptians. And yet here you sit. At a desk. A common drone. Taking orders from lowly canines and bears. Do your ancestors call to you from the great beyond, hissing their disappointment to you? Do they cry out in despair at where you’ve ended up despite such a lofty bloodline? Or does your hatred spring from the feline misery of always being alone? Skulking along, wishing you had a mate or a pack or pride to call your own? But all you have is you . . . and your pathetic job as a drone? Does it break your feline heart to be so . . . average? So common? So . . . human?” Toni cringed, which helped her not laugh.

He likes you,” Miss Dove said, sounding surprised. “Yes,” Harry answered with an unhappy sigh. He had long ago accepted the fact that cats adored him. The reason, of course, was because both God and cats had the same perverse sense of humor. When the animal buried its claws in his thigh and began to knead with happy abandon, he set his jaw and bore it. “Mr. Pigeon? Rather fitting for you to choose that name, Miss Dove. Both birds, you know.

Other times I fixate on how endearing people are. We sleep on soft surfaces; we like to be cozy. When I see cats cuddled up on pillows, I find it sweet; we are like that too. We like to eat cookies and smell flowers. We wear mittens and hats. We visit our families even when we’re old. We like to pet dogs. We laugh; we make involuntary sounds when we find things funny. Laughing is adorable, if you really think about it :')

When I later discovered that she (illustrator Faith Jaques) was a compulsive reader who loved to be alone and kept cats because they are the only pets that allow you to be both, my adoration of Jaques and her work could only increase.

Shaving is a waste of time. Bloody beard just grows back again. You object to my whiskers, Cordelia?” “Cats have whiskers, Jonah. Men have scruff. You look…” “Disreputable? Do say I look disreputable. I adore looking disreputable.” She glared at him. He grinned at her. What a marvelous sport this was, being ridiculous and riling her up.

It was that summer, too, that I began the cutting, and was almost as devoted to it as to my newfound loveliness. I adored tending to myself, wiping a shallow red pool of my blood away with a damp washcloth to magically reveal, just above my naval: queasy. Applying alcohol with dabs of a cotton ball, wispy shreds sticking to the bloody lines of: perky. I had a dirty streak my senior year, which I later rectified. A few quick cuts and cunt becomes can't, cock turns into back, clit transforms to a very unlikely cat, the l and i turned into a teetering capital A. The last words I ever carved into myself, sixteen years after I started: vanish. Sometimes I can hear the words squabbling at each other across my body. Up on my shoulder, panty calling down to cherry on the inside of my right ankle. On the underside of a big toe, sew uttering muffled threats to baby, just under my left breast. I can quiet them down by thinking of vanish, always hushed and regal, lording over the other words from the safety of the nape of my neck. Also: At the center of my back, which was too difficult to reach, is a circle of perfect skin the size of a fist. Over the years I've made my own private jokes. You can really read me. Do you want me to spell it out for you? I've certainly given myself a life sentence. Funny, right? I can't stand to look myself without being completely covered. Someday I may visit a surgeon, see what can be done to smooth me, but now I couldn't bear the reaction. Instead I drink so I don't think too much about what I've done to my body and so I don't do any more. Yet most of the time that I'm awake, I want to cut. Not small words either. Equivocate. Inarticulate. Duplicitous. At my hospital back in Illinois they would not approve of this craving. For those who need a name, there's a gift basket of medical terms. All I know is that the cutting made me feel safe. It was proof. Thoughts and words, captured where I could see them and track them. The truth, stinging, on my skin, in a freakish shorthand. Tell me you're going to the doctor, and I'll want to cut worrisome on my arm. Say you've fallen in love and I buzz the outlines of tragic over my breast. I hadn't necessarily wanted to be cured. But I was out of places to write, slicing myself between my toes - bad, cry - like a junkie looking for one last vein. Vanish did it for me. I'd saved the neck, such a nice prime spot, for one final good cutting. Then I turned myself in.

IT WAS ADORABLE THAT Sommers thought he was involved with anything as straightforward as Special Branch.

Later, long after my grandfather was dead, I would regret that I could never be the kind of man that he was. Though I adored him as a child and found myself attracted to the safe protectorate of his soft, uncritical maleness, I never wholly appreciated him. I did not know how to cherish sanctity, and I had no way of honoring, of giving small voice to the praise of such natural innocence, such a generous simplicity. Now I know that a part of me would like to have traveled the world as he traveled it, a jester of burning faith, a fool and a forest prince brimming with the love of God. I would like to walk his southern world, thanking God for oysters and porpoises, praising God for birdsongs and sheet lightning, and seeing God reflected in pools of creekwater and the eyes of stray cats. I would like to have talked to yard dogs and tanagers as if they were my friends and fellow travelers along the sun-tortured highways, intoxicated with a love of God, swollen with charity like a rainbow, in the thoughtless mingling of its hues, connecting two distant fields in its glorious arc. I would like to have seen the world with eyes incapable of anything but wonder, and a tongue fluent only in praise.

What was Nana like when he was little?” “I found him when he was a grown cat, so I don’t know what sort of kitten he was. I wish I could have known him then. I’m sure he was adorable.” You’re right there. My level of cuteness when I was a kitten was such that passersby vied for the privilege of leaving me a little something to eat.

Sometimes I fixate on how disgusting humans are. I think about how we do things like litter and invent nuclear bombs. I think about racism, war, rape, child abuse, and climate change. I think about how gross people are. I think about public bathrooms, armpits, and about all of our dirty hands. I think about how infection and diseases are spread. I think about how every human has a butt, and about how disgusting that is. Other times I fixate on how endearing people are. We sleep on soft surfaces; we like to be cozy. When I see cats cuddled up on pillows, I find it sweet; we are like that too. We like to eat cookies and smell flowers. We wear mittens and hats. We visit our families even when we’re old. We like to pet dogs. We laugh; we make involuntary sounds when we find things funny. Laughing is adorable, if you really think about it. We have hospitals. We invented buildings meant to help repair people. Doctors and nurses study for years to work here. They come here every day just to patch other people up. If we discovered some other animal who created infrastructure in the anticipation that their little animal peers might get hurt, we would all be absolutely moved and amazed.

Primatologists have seen this many times in the field: Say a male is fighting with another male. The females largely ignore the conflict, so long as it doesn’t bother them or their children. But then one of the combatants goes off and picks up a baby, who blithely clings to his chest hair or his back. Then he goes over to the male he was having the fight with. If the baby likes the male it’s clinging to, the kid will scream at his opponent if he acts aggressively. So the other male either backs off or is mobbed by friends of the mother, spurred on by the baby’s cries. It’s so effective, in fact, that some males simply carry a baby around as a kind of adorable bodyguard, preventing fights before they start.

He was adored like a pet. Not a dog, but a cat. He went where he liked, and nobody owned him.

Nurse Angela, with her love of cats and orphans, once remarked of Homer Wells that the boy must adore the name she gave him because he fought so hard not to lose it.

Before anyone can ask anything, I empty my game bag and it becomes 18:00 — Cat Adoration.

I’ve seen every episode of Murder, She Wrote, and I adore Angela Lansbury to pieces. But you’d have to be insane to let Jessica Fletcher within ten yards of your house.

He saw her face each time he closed his eyes. She haunted his thoughts, made him wish to do grand and wonderful things in her name, made him want to be a man who deserved to wear a crown. But Celaena—he didn’t know how she felt. She kissed him—greedily, at that—but the women he’d loved in the past had always been eager. They’d gazed at him adoringly, while she just looked at him like a cat watching a mouse.

Other times I fixate on how endearing people are. We sleep on soft surfaces; we like to be cozy. When I see cats cuddled up on pillows, I find it sweet; we are like that too. We like to eat cookies and smell flowers. We wear mittens and hats. We visit our families even when we’re old. We like to pet dogs. We laugh; we make involuntary sounds when we find things funny. Laughing is adorable, if you really think about it

Movie premieres and awards ceremonies mixed with the kids and the white picket fence. And a cat. Not a dog. Which I happen to think is adorable. My big old strong, dominant man loves cuddly little kitties. “We’ll

Let kings stack their treasure houses ceiling-high, and merchants burst their vaults with hoarded coin, and fools envy them. I have a treasure that outvalues theirs. A diamond as big as a man’s skull. Twelve rubies each as big as the skull of a cat. Seventeen emeralds each as big as the skull of a mole. And certain rods of crystal and bars of orichalcum. Let Overlords swagger jewel-bedecked and queens load themselves with gems, and fools adore them. I have a treasure that will outlast theirs. A treasure house have I builded for it in the far southern forest, where the two hills hump double, like sleeping camels, a day’s ride beyond the village of Soreev. “A great treasure house with a high tower, fit for a king’s dwelling—yet no king may dwell there.  Immediately below the keystone of the chief dome my treasure lies hid, eternal as the glittering stars. It will outlast me and my name, I, Urgaan of Angarngi. It is my hold on the future. Let fools seek it. They shall win it not. For although my treasure house be empty as air, no deadly creature in rocky lair, no sentinel outside anywhere, no pitfall, poison, trap, or snare, above and below the whole place bare, of demon or devil not a hair, no serpent lethal-fanged yet fair, no skull with mortal eye a-glare, yet have I left a guardian there. Let the wise read this riddle and forbear.

Jenny lacked any sense of property - she was constantly apologising to Yevgenia and asking for her permission to open the small upper window in order to let in her elderly tabby cat. Her main interests and worries centered around this cat and how to protect it from her neighbors... She fed her own rations to the cat, whom she called 'my dear, silver child' The cat adored her; he was a rough sullen beast, but would become suddenly animated and affectionate when he saw her.

Seriously. Like, insanely adorable. Those little paws, that tiny nose, those great big eyes… And that belly! That glorious, fluffy, mushy little kitty belly! It’s enough to drive an otherwise sane and sober adult to helpless, babbling lunacy.

Never give up hope, that family can be a great source of love, that the eternal inner spirit lives on even when the human body is frail and through positive thinking it can overcome incredible odds. Yes, all of these. But also, that love for others defines us.

Dude, wait until you see the hot little number on there!” He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. “What are you talking about? Aren’t all flight attendant’s middle-aged, blonde women?” “Not this one. She’s feisty too, kneed me right in the balls.” I smiled, and it was actually genuine. I wondered if he was fucking with me. But, it was enough to peak my curiosity. I slowly walked towards the plane wondering if it was going to be a grandma, or something. It wouldn’t be the first time. I really hoped that it wasn’t some die-hard groupie either. As soon as I reached the top of the stairs I almost tripped and fell on my face when I got my first look at her. She was gorgeous! She looked like she walked straight off of a pin-up girl calendar. She had long, black hair with strands of hot pink. I appraised my way down her body. She had a slim waist and curvy hips. She was built like an hourglass. I noticed a couple of sexy facial piercings. She had an adorable little nose and big brown eyes. Then I saw a tattoo peeking out on her shoulder. I could tell that she had a chest piece. I was instantly hard. Awesome…

Then I take a deep breath and open the door. My mother and sister are home for 18:00 — Reflection, a half hour of downtime before dinner. I see the concern on their faces as they try to gauge my emotional state. Before anyone can ask anything, I empty my game bag and it becomes 18:00 — Cat Adoration.

This is the reason why the presence of cats exercises such a magic influence upon highly-organized men of intellect. This is why these long-tailed Graces of the animal kingdom, these adorable, scintillating electric batteries have been the favorite animal of a Mahommed, Cardinal Richelieu, Crebillon, Rousseau, Wieland.

By what right has the dog come to be regarded as a "noble" animal? The more brutal and cruel and unjust you are to him the more your fawning and adoring slave he becomes; whereas, if you shamefully misuse a cat once she will always maintain a dignified reserve toward you afterward--you will never get her full confidence again.

Sometimes I don’t know how any of us go on. Sometimes I fear there’s no way our species will survive our own self-destructive choices. Sometimes I feel so gut punched by the backward deal of the universe—that if you’re really lucky, you get people in your life to love, and then, over time, they will all either leave you or die—that I am angry at life. Actually, not sometimes. Always. I always feel that way. I don’t always actively think about it, but it’s in there. At the same time, I am always looking for some gratitude, warmth, or hope. I often have to really search for it, but when I see something that makes me feel joy—even just a tiny odd hardly anything—you’re damn right I applaud it. Way to go, adorable cat on a leash! Thank you, server who brought my hot pizza! Kudos, writers of a TV show that made me laugh! Hallelujah, sunshine after a week of storms! Yay for a good hair day, yippee for hot coffee, huzzah for an outfit that puts bounce in my step. If I can scrape up some evidence of a thing made beautifully or a gesture made kindly, then I can believe, for a few seconds, that this world is careful and kind. And if I can believe that, I can believe it is safe to let the people I love walk around out there. It’s my own attempt at foresparkling, seeking out hints of good, even planting them myself, so I can believe there’s more good to come. It might all be superstition, just mental magic, but why not try?

The Churchills brought to 10 Downing a new family member, the Admiralty’s black cat, Nelson, named after Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson, hero of the British naval victory at Trafalgar. Churchill adored the cat and often carried him about the house. Nelson’s arrival caused a certain degree of feline strife, according to Mary, for Nelson harassed the cat that already resided at 10 Downing, whose nickname was “the Munich Mouser.” There was much to arrange, of course, as in any household, but an inventory for 10 Downing hints at the complexity that awaited Clementine: wine glasses and tumblers (the whiskey had to go somewhere), grapefruit glasses, meat dishes, sieves, whisks, knives, jugs, breakfast cups and saucers, needles for

Miles gathered his reins, tensed one calf, and shifted his weight slightly, and Fat Ninny responded with a neat half turn and two precise back steps. The thick-set roan gelding could not have been mistaken by the most ignorant urbanite for a fiery steed, but Miles adored him, for his dark and liquid eye, his wide velvet nose, his phlegmatic disposition equally unappalled by rushing streams or screaming aircars, but most of all for his exquisite dressage-trained responsiveness. Brains before beauty. Just being around him made Miles calmer; the beast was an emotional blotter, like a purring cat. Miles patted Fat Ninny on the neck. "If anybody asks," he murmured, "I'll tell them your name is Chieftain." Fat Ninny waggled one fuzzy ear, heaving a whooshing, barrel-chested sigh. Grandfather

How could such adoration and devotion ever be a bad thing? Because so many dog owners are unworthy of it. We are shamed by our dog’s loyalty, and we know, deep in our hearts, we will never measure up to it. In a fractured, impersonal world like ours, such a precious gift should be treasured, and yet so many of us take it for granted. Worse of all, we turn it against our dogs, repaying loyalty with mistreatment and neglect.

He looks at me incredulously. "Cute little kitty cat tail?" "Yeah. It's adorable." I say, watching it flit back and forth behind him. "Can I pet it?" He makes a weird chocking sound. "Whoa. Are you gonna have a fit or something?" "I... you..." "What? Is petting your tail like a no-go? I haven't read the genfin rulebook. Is it off-limits? Too bad. It looks so soft. Maybe when I get out of here, I'll find some other genfin who will let me pet his tail. Or I bet Evert will let me pet his.

I look at the white woman’s cards and listen to her bold English words—dog, cat, house—and there is all the evidence of what is to come in my life. I am not to go the way of the two people I long for in the thick terror of the night. The first man I love and the first woman I adore, my father and my mother with their Spanish words, are not in these cards. The road before me is English and the next part too awful to ask aloud or even silently: What is so wrong with my parents that I am not to mimic their hands, their needs, not even their words?

The domesticated cat in many homes is a friend, a companion, a family member. It is seen as a symbol of grace and poise both in ancient Egypt and in modern society. Women are oft described as cats as men are described as dogs in metaphor as well. Religious adoration of cats was also in ancient Egypt.1 So in some aspects they have, at least, a religious context. This, though, is not what one should look at primarily for a clear indication of their connection to religion. They are examples of a spectrum of how natural spirituality had developed over time.

Heald did not understand cats. All his life he had been a dog person, naturally averse to cats due to his allergies. Many of the women that he knew in the city had cats. It couldn’t be as simple as men being “dog people” and women being “cat people”; he knew that was too one- dimensional. Maybe something about cats’ apprehensive and complicated nature drew women to adore them, sensing a mirrored personality that had to be appreciated, or at the very least, respected. Dogs, with their fanatical, uncomplicated, and singular devotion, were everything a man could ever ask for.

In the end, she saved me by dropping down and patting the floor, trying to coax the cat out of hiding. “Viens ici, ma petite Bisou,” she crooned. “Ma choupinette. N’aie pas peur.” Suddenly I thought of those old scenes in the Addams Family when Gomez would lose his mind when Morticia spoke French. If I never got it watching reruns as a kid, I got it now. It didn’t even matter I had no clue what she was saying. Just the words on her lips were sexy. Blair sighed and sat back on her heels, looking up at me, her lips in a pout. “She won’t come out.” Christ, she was adorable. And why was it so hot in here?

Sarah sits up and reaches over, plucking a string on my guitar. It’s propped against the nightstand on her side of the bed. “So . . . do you actually know how to play this thing?” “I do.” She lies down on her side, arm bent, resting her head in her hand, regarding me curiously. “You mean like, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,’ the ‘ABC’s,’ and such?” I roll my eyes. “You do realize that’s the same song, don’t you?” Her nose scrunches as she thinks about it, and her lips move as she silently sings the tunes in her head. It’s fucking adorable. Then she covers her face and laughs out loud. “Oh my God, I’m an imbecile!” “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, but if you say so.” She narrows her eyes. “Bully.” Then she sticks out her tongue. Big mistake. Because it’s soft and pink and very wet . . . and it makes me want to suck on it. And then that makes me think of other pink, soft, and wet places on her sweet-smelling body . . . and then I’m hard. Painfully, achingly hard. Thank God for thick bedcovers. If this innocent, blushing bird realized there was a hot, hard, raging boner in her bed, mere inches away from her, she would either pass out from all the blood rushing to her cheeks or hit the ceiling in shock—clinging to it by her fingernails like a petrified cat over water. “Well, you learn something new every day.” She chuckles. “But you really know how to play the guitar?” “You sound doubtful.” She shrugs. “A lot has been written about you, but I’ve never once heard that you play an instrument.” I lean in close and whisper, “It’s a secret. I’m good at a lot of things that no one knows about.” Her eyes roll again. “Let me guess—you’re fantastic in bed . . . but everybody knows that.” Then she makes like she’s playing the drums and does the sound effects for the punch-line rim shot. “Ba dumb ba, chhhh.” And I laugh hard—almost as hard as my cock is. “Shy, clever, a naughty sense of humor, and a total nutter. That’s a damn strange combo, Titebottum.” “Wait till you get to know me—I’m definitely one of a kind.” The funny thing is, I’m starting to think that’s absolutely true. I rub my hands together, then gesture to the guitar. “Anyway, pass it here. And name a musician. Any musician.” “Umm . . . Ed Sheeran.” I shake my head. “All the girls love Ed Sheeran.” “He’s a great singer. And he has the whole ginger thing going for him,” she teases. “If you were born a prince with red hair? Women everywhere would adore you.” “Women everywhere already adore me.” “If you were a ginger prince, there’d be more.” “All right, hush now smartarse-bottum. And listen.” Then I play “Thinking Out Loud.” About halfway through, I glance over at Sarah. She has the most beautiful smile, and I think something to myself that I’ve never thought in all my twenty-five years: this is how it feels to be Ed Sheeran.

she watched Big Red swat lazily at a butterfly in the afternoon sunshine in their small garden. A Maine coon, she’d found outside her college when he was a tiny kitten, and having no idea how big a cat of his breed grew, she’d brought him home. No one claimed him and Maddie was glad about that every day. A big eater and even larger than the average Maine coon, Maddie adored him. In turn, he offered indifference tempered with affection, depending on his mood. He also ruled the house, something she willingly allowed and to her amusement, so did Gran. After eleven years, he was her confidante and side-kick, traipsing around town, with or without her, as far as she would let him and further if he thought he could get away with it.

I need everyone to love me. My feelings of inadequacy and lack of parental attachment have made me one of those sick bitches who can't tolerate being ignored. My parents say all the right things when they are pretending to listen to me. But the truth is, they are more like cats. They accidentally had a litter of kittens, and then emotionally moved on to whatever ball of yarn rolled past their line of sight. When self-obsessed people breed, they make empty people like me who spend the rest of their time on earth trying to gain the love and approval they didn't get as children. This doesn't excuse my behavior. It's just to say, if my parents had actually noticed me, I probably wouldn't care so much about whether everyone else on the planet adored me. Unfortunately, I'm a bottomless pit of need.

love not mattering to you?” “I want to marry you.” “What?” “If you’ll have me. I’m aware I will need to grovel for a few months to make up for it.” “Yes,” Gabrielle agreed. Puss increased his pace a bit, but still affected an air of disinterest. “But,” Steffen sidled up to her. This time Gabrielle didn’t pull back when he caressed her cheek. “I can promise to be devoted to you, to love you not because of your appearance—even though you are the most beautiful woman I have set eyes upon—but because you’re you. I promise to adore you, and treasure you, to buy you new swords and plum rolls until you are sick of them, and to get along with that cat of yours. I’m not the hero you are, but I’ll do everything in my power to support you. And if I’m left behind, I will be every bit as heartbroken as my father, but I will still be grateful that I had you for a time.

She would've sworn the cat- or kitten, for it sounded quite small- was right in front of her, but there was nothing there. She straightened and glanced at Val. His azure eyes were alight with amusement. "Phantom cats and ghostly kittens." She frowned at him. "I don't believe in ghosts." "Boring." He kissed her on the nose and, while she was still blinking in surprise, leaned down and did something to the back of the cupboard. Suddenly one of the boards came away in his hands. She leaned down again to look. Staring back at them was a ginger cat, her green eyes wide, and at her teats were a row of wriggling kittens in a rainbow of colors. She was curled in the small space of what was evidently a false back to the cupboard. "But how did she get in?" Bridget breathed, enchanted. The kittens were at that wee fluffy stage and absolutely adorable. "Magic," Val said promptly, and then, more prosaically, "or the back of the cupboard's rotted away.

Two Kittens by Maisie Aletha Smikle Born to a cat called Mitten Were two tiny little kittens Nested in a basket They purred for the warmth of a blanket Coated in short velvet hair of midnight black From whiskers to tail they were beauty black Soft cuddly and adorable They searched uncontrollably Twisting and twirling Their little tails floundering Tiny purrs pleading They comb their little basket for a blanket To feed her little kittens And warm their tiny bodies Mitten must feed her tummy With something very yummy Mitten searched for food She stayed close to her brood With their small eyes still closed Mitten’s little kittens mainly dozed Mitten peered and listen Her bright ocean blue eyes glisten She spots a mouse Coming from a house The mouse had just feasted Groggy from its feast It moved slowly Mitten pounced boldly She knocked her target out Picked it up in her mouth And feasted with delight Then licked her whiskers clean till they glisten bright Mitten returned to her kittens And found them soundly fast asleep She covered her little kittens And soon fell fast asleep

So at last Ilar Sant came to this wood, which people now call St. Hilary's wood because they have forgotten all about Ilar. And he was weary with his wandering, and the day was very hot; so he stayed by this well and began to drink. And there on that great stone he saw the shining fish, and so he rested, and built an altar and a church of willow boughs, and offered the sacrifice not only for the quick and the dead, but for all the wild beasts of the woods and the streams. "And when this blessed Ilar rang his holy bell and began to offer, there came not only the Prince and his servants, but all the creatures of the wood. There, under the hazel boughs, you might see the hare, which flies so swiftly from men, come gently and fall down, weeping greatly on account of the Passion of the Son of Mary. And, beside the hare, the weasel and the pole-cat would lament grievously in the manner of penitent sinners; and wolves and lambs together adored the saint's hierurgy; and men have beheld tears streaming from the eyes of venomous serpents when Ilar Agios uttered 'Curiluson' with a loud voice—since the serpent is not ignorant that by its wickedness sorrow came to the whole world. And when, in the time of the holy ministry, it is necessary that frequent Alleluyas should be chanted and vociferated, the saint wondered what should be done, for as yet none in that place was skilled in the art of song. Then was a great miracle, since from all the boughs of the wood, from every bush and from every green tree, there resounded Alleluyas in enchanting and prolonged harmony; never did the Bishop of Rome listen to so sweet a singing in his church as was heard in this wood. For the nightingale and thrush and blackbird and blackcap, and all their companions, are gathered together and sing praises to the Lord, chanting distinct notes and yet concluding in a melody of most ravishing sweetness; such was the mass of the Fisherman. Nor was this all, for one day as the saint prayed beside the well he became aware that a bee circled round and round his head, uttering loud buzzing sounds, but not endeavouring to sting him. To be short; the bee went before Ilar, and led him to a hollow tree not far off, and straightway a swarm of bees issued forth, leaving a vast store of wax behind them. This was their oblation to the Most High, for from their wax Ilar Sant made goodly candles to burn at the Offering; and from that time the bee is holy, because his wax makes light to shine upon the Gifts.

became a blurry swirl of shapes and colors narrowing into a luminous spot of white light at the end of a black anoxic tunnel and dissolving into a rapid series of bright sharp images that I recognized at once from my childhood: long forgotten memories of important moments flashing by faster than anything I’d ever experienced, twenty to thirty frames a second, each one of them original, like perfect photographic slides from the archives of my young life, every scene compressed into a complete story with sights and sounds and smells and feelings from the time. Each image was euphoric, rapturous. The smiling face of my beautiful young mother / a gentle touch from her hand on my face / absorbing her love / playing in the sand at the seashore with my father / waves washing up on the beach / feeling the strength and security of his presence / soothing, kind-hearted praise from a teacher at school / faces and voices of adoring aunts and uncles / steam trains coming in at the local railroad station / hearing myself say “choo-choo” / the excitement of shared discovery with my brother on Christmas morning / running free through a familiar forest with a happy dog / hitting a baseball hard and hearing encouraging cries from my parents behind me in the bleachers / shooting baskets in a backyard court with a buddy from high school / a tender kiss from the soft warm lips of a lovely teenage girl / the encouraging thrust of her stomach and thighs against mine.

So what did you and Landon do this afternoon?” Minka asked, her soft voice dragging him back to the present. Angelo looked up to see that Minka had already polished off two fajitas. Damn, the girl could eat. “Landon gave me a tour of the DCO complex. I did some target shooting and blew up a few things. He even let me play with the expensive surveillance toys. I swear, it felt more like a recruiting pitch to get me to work there than anything.” Minka’s eyes flashed green, her full lips curving slightly. Damn, why the hell had he said it like that? Now she probably thought he was going to come work for the DCO. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t, not after just reenlisting for another five years. The army wasn’t the kind of job where you could walk into the boss’s office and say, “I quit.” Thinking it would be a good idea to steer the conversation back to safer ground, he reached for another fajita and asked Minka a question instead. “What do you think you’ll work on next with Ivy and Tanner? You going to practice with the claws for a while or move on to something else?” Angelo felt a little crappy about changing the subject, but if Minka noticed, she didn’t seem to mind. And it wasn’t like he had to fake interest in what she was saying. Anything that involved Minka was important to him. Besides, he didn’t know much about shifters or hybrids, so the whole thing was pretty damn fascinating. “What do you visualize when you see the beast in your mind?” he asked. “Before today, I thought of it as a giant, blurry monster. But after learning that the beast is a cat, that’s how I picture it now.” She smiled. “Not a little house cat, of course. They aren’t scary enough. More like a big cat that roams the mountains.” “Makes sense,” he said. Minka set the other half of her fourth fajita on her plate and gave him a curious look. “Would you mind if I ask you a personal question?” His mouth twitched as he prepared another fajita. He wasn’t used to Minka being so reserved. She usually said whatever was on her mind, regardless of whether it was personal or not. “Go ahead,” he said. “The first time we met, I had claws, fangs, glowing red eyes, and I tried to kill you. Since then, I’ve spent most of the time telling you about an imaginary creature that lives inside my head and makes me act like a monster. How are you so calm about that? Most people would have run away already.” Angelo chuckled. Not exactly the personal question he’d expected, but then again Minka rarely did the expected. “Well, my mom was full-blooded Cherokee, and I grew up around all kinds of Indian folktales and legends. My dad was in the army, and whenever he was deployed, Mom would take my sisters and me back to the reservation where she grew up in Oklahoma. I’d stay up half the night listening to the old men tell stories about shape-shifters, animal spirits, skin-walkers, and trickster spirits.” He grinned. “I’m not saying I necessarily believed in all that stuff back then, but after meeting Ivy, Tanner, and the other shifters at the DCO, it just didn’t faze me that much.” Minka looked at him with wide eyes. “You’re a real American Indian? Like in the movies? With horses and everything?” He laughed again. The expression of wonder on her face was adorable. “First, I’m only half-Indian. My dad is Mexican, so there’s that. And second, Native Americans are almost nothing like you see in the movies. We don’t all live in tepees and ride horses. In fact, I don’t even own a horse.” Minka was a little disappointed about the no-horse thing, but she was fascinated with what it was like growing up on an Indian reservation and being surrounded by all those legends. She immediately asked him to tell her some Indian stories. It had been a long time since he’d thought about them, but to make her happy, he dug through his head and tried to remember every tale he’d heard as a kid.

What's that thing?” The young man looked horrified. “That’s Winky.” How dare he call my darling cat a thing? Sure, Winky had only one eye, and looked as though he’d just walked off the set of a slasher movie, but deep down, underneath all that fur and latent aggression, he was sweet and adorable. At least, that’s what the woman at the cat re-homing centre had told me. Gullible? Who? Me? Winky jumped onto my desk, and immediately the young man pushed his chair back. He probably thought he’d be safe at that distance, but he hadn’t seen how far Winky could jump.

I have often tried in dreams to be the kind of imposing individual the Romantics imagined themselves to be, and whenever I have, I’ve always ended up laughing out loud at myself for even giving house-room to such an idea. After all, the homme fatal exists in the dreams of all ordinary men, and romanticism is merely the turning inside out of our normal daily selves. In the most secret part of their being, all men dream of ruling over a great empire, with all men their subjects, all women theirs for the asking, adored by all the people and (if they are inferior men) of all ages … Few are as accustomed to dreaming as I am and so are not lucid enough to laugh at the aesthetic possibility of nurturing such dreams. The most serious criticism of romanticism has not yet been made, namely, that it represents the inner truth of human nature, an externalization of what lies deepest in the human soul, but made concrete, visible, even possible, if being possible depends on something other than Fate, and its excesses, its absurdities, its various ploys for moving and seducing people, all stem from that. Even I who laugh at the seductive traps laid by the imagination often find myself imagining how wonderful it would be to be famous, how gratifying to be loved, how thrilling to be a success! And yet I can never manage to see myself in those exulted roles without hearing a guffaw from the other “I” I always keep as close to me as a street in the Baixa. Do I imagine myself famous? Only as a famous bookkeeper. Do I fancy myself raised up onto the thrones of celebrity? This fantasy only ever comes upon me in the office in Rua dos Douradores, and my colleagues inevitably ruin the effect. Do I hear the applause of the most variegated multitudes? That applause comes from the cheap fourth-floor room where I live and clashes horribly with the shabby furnishings, with the surrounding vulgarity, humiliating both me and the dream. I never even had any castles in Spain, like those Spaniards we Portuguese have always feared. My castles were built out of an incomplete deck of grubby playing cards; and they didn’t collapse of their own accord, but had to be demolished with a sweeping gesture of the hand, the impatient gesture of an elderly maid wanting to restore the tablecloth and reset the table, because teatime was calling like some fateful curse. Even that vision is of little worth, because I don’t have a house in the provinces or old aunts at whose table, at the end of a family gathering, I sit sipping a cup of tea that tastes to me of repose. My dream failed even in its metaphors and figurations. My empire didn’t even go as far as a pack of old playing cards. My victory didn’t even include a teapot or an ancient cat. I will die as I lived, among the bric-a-brac of my room, sold off by weight among the postscripts of things lost. May I at least take with me into the immense possibilities to be found in the abyss of everything the glory of my disillusion as if it were that of a great dream, the splendor of my unbelief like a flag of defeat — a flag held aloft by feeble hands, but dragged through the mud and blood of the weak and held on high as we sink into the shifting sands, whether in protest or defiance or despair no one knows … No one knows because no one knows anything, and the sands swallow up those with flags and those without … And the sands cover everything, my life, my prose, my eternity. I carry with me the knowledge of my defeat as if it were a flag of victory

I have often tried in dreams to be the kind of imposing individual the Romantics imagined themselves to be, and whenever I have, I’ve always ended up laughing out loud at myself for even giving house-room to such an idea. After all, the homme fatal exists in the dreams of all ordinary men, and romanticism is merely the turning inside out of our normal daily selves. In the most secret part of their being, all men dream of ruling over a great empire, with all men their subjects, all women theirs for the asking, adored by all the people and (if they are inferior men) of all ages … Few are as accustomed to dreaming as I am and so are not lucid enough to laugh at the aesthetic possibility of nurturing such dreams. The most serious criticism of romanticism has not yet been made, namely, that it represents the inner truth of human nature, an externalization of what lies deepest in the human soul, but made concrete, visible, even possible, if being possible depends on something other than Fate, and its excesses, its absurdities, its various ploys for moving and seducing people, all stem from that. Even I who laugh at the seductive traps laid by the imagination often find myself imagining how wonderful it would be to be famous, how gratifying to be loved, how thrilling to be a success! And yet I can never manage to see myself in those exulted roles without hearing a guffaw from the other “I” I always keep as close to me as a street in the Baixa. Do I imagine myself famous? Only as a famous bookkeeper. Do I fancy myself raised up onto the thrones of celebrity? This fantasy only ever comes upon me in the office in Rua dos Douradores, and my colleagues inevitably ruin the effect. Do I hear the applause of the most variegated multitudes? That applause comes from the cheap fourth-floor room where I live and clashes horribly with the shabby furnishings, with the surrounding vulgarity, humiliating both me and the dream. I never even had any castles in Spain, like those Spaniards we Portuguese have always feared. My castles were built out of an incomplete deck of grubby playing cards; and they didn’t collapse of their own accord, but had to be demolished with a sweeping gesture of the hand, the impatient gesture of an elderly maid wanting to restore the tablecloth and reset the table, because teatime was calling like some fateful curse. Even that vision is of little worth, because I don’t have a house in the provinces or old aunts at whose table, at the end of a family gathering, I sit sipping a cup of tea that tastes to me of repose. My dream failed even in its metaphors and figurations. My empire didn’t even go as far as a pack of old playing cards. My victory didn’t even include a teapot or an ancient cat. I will die as I lived, among the bric-a-brac of my room, sold off by weight among the postscripts of things lost. May I at least take with me into the immense possibilities to be found in the abyss of everything the glory of my disillusion as if it were that of a great dream, the splendor of my unbelief like a flag of defeat — a flag held aloft by feeble hands, but dragged through the mud and blood of the weak and held on high as we sink into the shifting sands, whether in protest or defiance or despair no one knows … No one knows because no one knows anything, and the sands swallow up those with flags and those without … And the sands cover everything, my life, my prose, my eternity. I carry with me the knowledge of my defeat as if it were a flag of victory

Roald Dahl adored dogs, birds, and even goats. But he hated cats.

The ride is nearly at an end, the operator is helping the people below us off and then it’s our turn, and Travis breathes a huge sigh of relief. “It wasn’t that bad was it?” I tease him. He looks over my face before grinning. “It could have been worse.” “Oh really?” I ask. The Ferris Wheel starts again, but the operator must have pressed the wrong key because our seat suddenly drops a foot down before smoothly coming to a stop in front of him. Travis is plastered all over me: his legs stretched across the floor, his left arm across my chest, and he has the most adorable, panicked look on his face. And I can’t help it, I throw my head back and laugh. It was a foot. He dropped a foot when he was five feet off the ground to begin with, and he now looks like a cat when you try and throw it in the bath. And he gave me a hard time about the spiders. “Smile!” I hear someone yell and see a bright flash. “I was worried about you,” Travis says, fighting the grin on his face. “My hero,” I say, putting my hand on his chest before standing up and getting off of the ride.

Jack pursed his lips as he glanced down at his costume. He appreciated the fact that Ivy got him simple black pants and a shirt for the bulk of his costume. When she brought up the subject of a costume, he agreed as long as she didn’t go overboard. It was the felt tail and ears that were giving him pause. “I don’t hate it,” Jack said. “I just think maybe we should pick something else.” “We don’t have anything else,” Ivy said, jutting out her lower lip. “I picked that because I have a black cat and I thought you would look adorable … which you do.” “Honey, it’s one thing for you to find me adorable when we’re alone,” Jack pointed out. “It’s quite another for the entire town to find me adorable. I would think that’s something you would want to keep all for yourself.” “Oh, that was a brilliant save, man,” Max said, snickering. “I mean … it was masterful. Really.” “Shut up, Max,” Jack barked.

C’è qualche problema?” comes a soft voice from behind us, and we all jump, startled. He has a way of sneaking up on you like a cat, I think savagely, annoyed at being taken so off guard. Everyone turns but me, because of course I know who it is straightaway. It’s as if I have a special radar setting for him: I would recognize his voice anywhere. “Luca!” Andrea says, sounding relieved, and rattles off a long stream of Italian. I don’t want to swivel to look at Luca directly. So I step back a couple of paces, closer to the wall that borders the paddocks, widening my range, and see him leaning against one of the gateposts, looking very amused. His eyes are gleaming, his hands shoved in his pockets, as he speaks equally rapid-fire Italian at Andrea. I just glance at him swiftly, and then away again. He’s been ignoring me all evening, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of staring adoringly at him now.

I adore their cooing, which, in my opinion, is even more soothing than a cat's purr.

My girl’s all curled up in a furry gray ball, fast asleep. I guess it would be mean to wake her up just because I want to cuddle with her. I guess that would make me a bad cat parent. With an anxious attachment style. Maybe kittens and therapists should stop being so fucking cute if they don’t want me to adore them so much.

I could read it so you don’t have to?” she offers, but I’m already halfway through. I start to read aloud. “ ‘I had this vision for creating a platform that would help people to connect and coalesce around the things that mattered most to them. It was a natural extension of what I’d been doing for years. People used to call me a humanist spirit guide—I guess that’s what I’m bringing to WAI now, just on a larger stage.’ “He doesn’t even mention us. Doesn’t say anything about how Jules and I dragged him kicking and screaming into this. I wanted to create a platform. Cyrus just wanted to baptize cats.” “To be fair, the Cat Baptism is one of the most shared rituals,” Destiny says, trying to lighten the tone. “Eight hundred thousand videos and counting.” I keep going. “ ‘I’m attracted to the solitary life, Jones says. You can imagine him in a monastery, although he’d have to cut off that halo around his head. In addition to creating a social network that millions of people are turning to for meaning and community, he is also taking care of his employees—he has just kicked off a mentorship program to give the women on his team the support they need to thrive in their roles.’ ” Destiny tells me to stop reading. “It’s just bullshit.” I take a shaky deep breath. “That’s my mentorship program,” I whisper. “Cyrus is telling them what he wants to hear. You and I both know that.” I’m stammering now, but I keep going. “ ‘He’s otherworldly but handsome in an almost comical way. His sentences are long, and when you’re in the middle of one, you wonder, where is this going? But he always manages to bring whatever he’s saying to a satisfying conclusion. Everything he says is mysterious and somehow obvious at the same time.’ ” At least this one is funny. I allow Destiny to laugh briefly. I get to the last line. “ ‘I have to say, I’m developing something of a crush.’ ” “Oh, for God’s sake, another woman in love with Cyrus. Take a number, sister.” Destiny leans over, reads the byline. “George Milos. Guess Cyrus appeals to all genders.” As we get up to leave, she says, “I don’t think Cyrus is a bad person. He’s just basking in a sea of adoration, and it makes him think more of himself than he should.” “Where does that leave me?” “You have a tough gig. No one wants to be married to the guy everyone thinks is going to save the world.

Other times I fixate on how endearing people are. We sleep on soft surfaces; we like to be cozy. When I see cats cuddled up on pillows, I nd it sweet; we are like that too. We like to eat cookies and smell owers. We wear mittens and hats. We visit our families even when we’re old. We like to pet dogs. We laugh; we make involuntary sounds when we nd things funny. Laughing is adorable, if you really think about it" :')

Remember: confidence is key when wearing cute cat themed clothes. Own every step as if you were strutting down the runway during Fashion Week in Paris.

Helping in the cat sense,” he confirms. “Interfering with maximum adorableness.

Siberia gave him a terrible fear of wolves, especially in packs. He also feared spiders, and disliked and distrusted both cats and hedgehogs. He owned at least four dogs, one of whom, Tishka, a small mongrel, he adored. He liked mice and sometimes fed them.

What happened to your lip?" Ravenna said to him. "It looks sore." Miss Feather's fingers darted to her mouth. "Thank you for your kind concern, Miss Caulfield." His eyes were very dark blue and still rimmed with the longest lashed Ravenna had ever seen on a man. Beauty and virility and confidence and sheer privileged arrogance combined to remarkable effect. No wonder these silly girls stared. "It was bitten," he said. "Oh, dear." Lady Penelope pouted sweetly. "That must have been alarming." "Not terribly. I have been bitten by cats before." The corner of his mouth twitched. "This one," he said, turning his dark, laughing gaze upon Ravenna, "was otherwise charming." -Ravenna, Vitor, & Lady Penelope

Jesus, Kash!” “What are you doing?” “What are you doing? Why are you just standing out here like a creeper?” He smirked and followed me over to my apartment. “I’m trying to figure out why you’re army-crawling all over the breezeway and shouting for a candy bar.” “I’m not shouting for a candy bar, I’m looking for a cat that isn’t there.” One of his thick eyebrows rose and he bit down on his lip ring to try to hide his smile as he held my door open for us. “Mrs. Adams . . . isn’t exactly all there. She thinks she has cats and she doesn’t. And every Thursday since we moved in, she’s come knocking at eight thirty asking for me to help her look for them.” “And you help her, knowing they aren’t there?” “Well, I didn’t know the first time until I got into her apartment. Her cats are really stuffed animals and pillows.” “But you helped her every other time knowing what you know?” He’d stopped biting on that ring and his lips kept tilting up as he tried to control his smile. “Yeah, Kash, I did. Because no one else does, and don’t laugh at me! It’s not funny, I feel really bad for her! You should see how upset she gets over this.” I turned to walk into my room, but he caught me around my waist and hauled my body back to his. “I’m not laughing at you, Rach,” he mumbled huskily, and his gray eyes roamed my face. “I think it’s adorable that you help her. You’re really just a big softy, aren’t you?” Laughing when I growled at him, he continued to piss me off even more. “You’re like Sour Patch Kids candy.” “What the hell?” “Sour . . . then sweet.” “I will castrate you if you don’t let me go right now.

work vehicles and a lone motorcycle, her SUV had the road to itself, which meant she would get there faster. Indeed, the familiarity of turning onto Caroline’s street was a lifeline. Once she parked in front of the mint-over-teal Victorian, she put Tad on her hip and hurried up the walk. The squeak of the screen was actually reassuring. And the smell of time when she stepped inside? Heaven. “Mom?” Caroline ran barefoot from the kitchen, stopped short, and put a hand to her heart. “Mother and child,” she breathed and slowly approached. Her hair was a wavy mess, and her face blushed in a way that made her look forty, but her eyes, moist now, held adoration. Wrapping a firm arm around Jamie, she said by her ear, “We will not mention the show. It has no place in this house with us right now, okay?” Jamie hadn’t even thought about the show, and certainly couldn’t think of it with Caroline’s soft, woodsy scent soothing her nerves and giving her strength. “Mom,” she began, drawing back, but Caroline was studying Tad. “Oh my. A real little boy. Hey,” she said softly and touched his hair. Jamie felt the warmth of the touch, but Tad just stared without blinking. “I think I know you. Aren’t you Theodore MacAfee the Second?” Those very big eyes were somber as he shook his head. “Who, then?” “Taddy,” came the baby voice. “The Taddy who likes cats?” Caroline asked, to which he started looking around the floor, “or the Taddy who likes pancakes?” “Pancakes, please,” Jamie inserted. “I promised him we’d eat here. Mom—” She broke off when Master meowed. Setting Tad on the floor, she waited only until he had run after the cat before turning back to her mother and holding out her left hand. Caroline frowned. “You’re shaking.” She had steadied the hand with her own before she finally focused on that bare ring finger. Wide eyes flew to Jamie’s. In that instant, with this first oh-so-important disclosure, it was real. Jamie could barely breathe. “I returned it. Brad and I split.” “What happened?” Caroline whispered, but quickly caught herself. Cupping Jamie’s face, she said, “First things first. I don’t have a booster seat for Tad.” “He’ll kneel on a chair. He looks like Dad. Do you hate him for that?” Tad was on his haunches on the other side of the room, waiting for Master to come out from under the spindle legs of a lamp stand. “I should,” Caroline confessed, “but how to hate a child? He may have Roy’s coloring, but he’ll take on your expressions, and soon enough he’ll look like himself. Besides,” she gave a gritty smirk, “it’s not like your father gets the last laugh. If he thought I was a withered-up old hag—” “He didn’t.” “Yes, he did. Isn’t that what booting me off Gut It! was about?” “You said we weren’t talking about that,” Jamie begged, knowing that despite this nascent reconciliation, Gut It! remained a huge issue. Not talking about it wouldn’t make it go away, but she didn’t want the intrusion of it now. Caroline seemed to agree. She spoke more calmly. “Your father’s opinion of me went way back to our marriage, so this, today, here, now, is satisfying for me. How happy do you think he is looking down from heaven to see his son at my house, chasing my cat and about to eat my grandmother’s pancakes, cooked by me in my kitchen and served on a table I made?” The part of Jamie that resented Roy for what he had made Caroline suffer shared her mother’s satisfaction. She might have said that, if Caroline hadn’t gone from bold to unsure in a breath. “I’m not equipped yet, baby. Does Tad need a bottle for his water?” “No. He’s done with bottles. Just a little water in a cup will do, since I forgot the sippy.” In her rush to get out of the house, she had also left Moose, which meant she would have to go back for him before dropping Tad off, which meant she would be late for her first appointment, which she couldn’t reschedule because she had back-to-backs all day, which meant she would have to postpone to another day, which

Unfurling herself like a large polar cat, she stood twice as tall as me. Her coat was a magnificent mother of pearl, while her tail gleamed turquoise with threads of gold bisecting each scale. Her teeth were large, capable of tearing a man in half, and her eyes glowed a deep bloody red. She was fury and wonder, and I adored her.

Grant considered himself happy. He had a career that allowed him a cozy home and two cats who were both ambivalent and adoring of his existence. And he had enough left over to save money and help his parents.

Red-hot jealousy blazes through me, shocking the shit out of me. “Do you have a boyfriend, Kitty cat?” Her eyes widen and her mouth gapes. “T-that’s none of your business,” she sputters adorably. The more I’m left in the dark, the more vicious the green-eyed monster grows. “It’s the very least you can offer a curious guy, seeing as I’ve given up my precious time for you.

Red-hot jealousy blazes through me, shocking the shit out of me. “Do you have a boyfriend, Kitty cat?” Her eyes widen and her mouth gapes. “T-that’s none of your business,” she sputters adorably.

. Fat Cat

Was this karma for daydreaming about Adorable Family being stranded at the airport? Karma was supposed to be a cat, dammit, not this.

I do adore you,” Kit said, gazing up at him with an expression that caused Percy to become intensely interested in the buttons of his coat. “You really shouldn’t,” Percy said. “You can’t stop me, you know,” Kit said. “I’ll care about you as much as I please.

At the Alley Cat Allies conference, I sit through a very technical presentation on Tomahawk trap trip plates, postoperative temperature control, and other TNR mechanics. As the sober PowerPoint concludes, the presenter suddenly flashes a slide of an adorable feline neonate: "And this is my kitten Rex!" she says. The room explodes in squeals. It was a bit like ending a lecture on the war on drugs with a picture of a lit crack pipe—especially since there is actually some evidence that cats, like street drugs, have clinically compromised our minds.

Adam said, “Lord, I am lonesome and have trouble remembering how much you love me.” God said, “No problem! I will create a companion for you so you will know my affection, even when you cannot see me. No matter how selfish and foolish you may be, this new companion will love you unconditionally, as I do.” So God created a new animal for Adam, and this new animal was so happy to be with the man, that it wagged its tail with joy. But Adam said, “Lord, I do not have a name for the new animal.” And God said, “Because I created this animal to reveal my love for you, his name will have the same letters as my own name—you will call him Dog.” So Dog became Adam’s best friend, and Dog was happy and wagged his tail even more. But after a while, one of the angels complained to God, saying, “Lord, Adam has become arrogant. He is insufferably conceited. Dog has taught him that he is unconditionally loved—but no one teaches him humility.’ And the Lord said, “I have a solution! I will create another companion for him who will see the man as he is. This creature will remind him that he is not always worthy of adoration.” And God created Cat. Cat was certain he was far superior to Adam, and so Cat taught Adam humility. And God was pleased. And Cat did not give a darn one way or the other.

I don’t eat animals.” “What’s the problem with eating animals? Animals don’t have problems eating other animals. You ever have a cat? Those suckers are the sweetest, most adorable little bloodthirsty killers in the world.

Doris Simpson, her cleaner, was waiting for her when she got back. “How’s my Wyckhadden cat?” asked Agatha. She had brought a cat back with her from one of her previous “cases” but had found three cats just too much and the new cat adored Doris and so Doris had taken it over.

Warren was probably the most avid reader who ever ran the library. She believed librarians' single greatest responsibility was to read voraciously. Perhaps she advocated this in order to be sure librarians knew their books, but for Warren, this directive was based in emotion and philosophy: She wanted librarians to simply adore the act of reading for its own sake, and perhaps, as a collateral benefit, they could inspire their patrons to read with a similarly insatiable appetite. As she said in a speech to a library association in 1935, librarians should "read as a drunkard drinks or as a bird sings or a cat sleeps or a dog responds to an invitation to go walking, not from conscience or training, but because they'd rather do it than anything else in the world.

Anything else? Little lamps maybe? I could make adorable little fire-pokers if they have chimneys. Perhaps a post box?" Cat was giggling now, rocking back and forth on the log."We can't have the wee animals' mail getting lost.

With so many options available at affordable prices, you’re sure to find a purrfectly stylish cat themed shirt that fits your personality and taste.

Once they’d figured out that Yat wasn’t a threat, the crew of the Kopek had started treating her like a small cat or a pet bird: something adorable that would kill you if it could, but since it can’t, it’s hilarious.

This is my cat, Juju," the woman says, noting my obvious confusion, maybe even my fear. "He's my good luck charm." "Uh, yeah," I say, backing away ever so slightly. That's some collar. I love the rhinestones. Trés chic." "Rhinestones? Don't be silly. I buy all his accessories from a jeweler. His collar is from Catier. As they say, diamonds are a cat's best friend." My upper lip twitches. Nobody has ever said that. And I'm pretty sure she means Cartier. She blows the cat a kiss, and I swear, if cats could smile, this one does, his giant face twisting with love or hunger. "He's huge," I say, watching his tail flick a bit menacingly. "He's a rare French breed, a Chartreux. He's just, how do you say? Big-boned?" She chortles out a laugh. "I really should put him on a regime like the vétérinaire said. He weighs nine kilos. Can you believe it? I strain my back when I try to pick him up. But he truly doesn't like les haricots verts or les courgettes. He's quite the gourmand." My head spins with confusion. I wonder, What cat would like green beans and zucchini? as I convert the math in my head. Her cat weighs around twenty pounds. And, apparently, he hates vegetables but adores his bling.

Physicians and psychologists say that loving, caring for, and spending time with animals enhances our well-being. Anyone who has ever been adored by a dog or adopted by a cat probably can’t convey in words the emotional bond that grows between them.

Having been the most rambunctious of the group, Kevin and Lilian conked out first. Lilian had pulled a sleeping bag from her Extra Dimensional Storage Space, and she and Kevin had crawled into it and passed out. They lay on their side, the two of them. Lilian was snuggled against Kevin’s chest, and the blond human had an arm around her waist, pulling her close. The others had to admit, however reluctantly, that the pair made for an unbearably adorable sight. “Nya…” The cat didn’t seem to think so. It glared at the duo with something resembling irritation. “Brother?” “Yes?” “Is it weird that I have this strange urge to squeal ‘kawaii’?” Alex glanced at what his brother was looking at… then shook his head. “That… I cannot answer.” “Hmm.” Andrew pondered these words for a second. “What about wanting to wrap my hands around Kevin’s throat and squeeze until his eyeballs pop out of his head and his tongue swells and thickens as he slowly suffocates to death?” Alex took a moment to think up an answer. “… No, I think your feelings are perfectly acceptable, given the situation.” “Good.

Kevin chuckled and walked over to his bike. He put up the kickstand and grabbed the handles. It was time to head home. “Nya.” Blink. “Nya?” “Nya.” Blink. Blink. Kevin looked at the wall near the distribution building—and nearly squealed upon spotting the small, cute, adorably furry animal sitting on its haunches. A black cat with big yellow eyes stared at him. Its tail swayed behind it, moving left, then right. It opened its mouth, releasing another one of those utterly endearing, if unusual, “nya” sounds. This cat reminds me of the one that I took home with me when I was in elementary school. It even nyas. How cool is that? “Kitty!” Like a child who’d just seen a new toy on Christmas Day, Kevin dropped his bike and went over to the cat, whose large incandescent orbs had yet to leave his face. He reached the feline in record time, and his hand was quick to descend upon its head. The cat didn’t seem to mind. Indeed, it reveled in the attention, purring as he gently scratched behind its left ear, which twitched with minute movements.

As Kevin pampered the cat, he realized that he needed to return home. Slowly, and with great reluctance, Kevin stopped petting the cat, which “nya’d” in complaint and tried to get his attention again. “Nya?” “I’m sorry.” Kevin struggled not to be blinded by the cuteness as he looked into the cat’s eyes. “But I really need to go.” “Nya?” “D-don’t look at me like that. I have… I need to leave. We’re planning a trip, so…” “Nya?” “Those eyes won’t… they won’t work on me. I’ve already been subject to them once. I won’t succumb again.” The cat tilted its head. Kevin squealed like a little girl who’d just been touched by her favorite pop idol. “Kya! So adorable!” He scooped the cat into his arms. The cat didn’t seem to mind. “I’m sure it’ll be fine if I take you home with me.” “Nya,” the cat mewled, seemingly in agreement.

movie, but deep down, underneath all that fur and latent aggression, he was sweet and adorable. At least, that’s what the woman at the cat re-homing centre had told me. Gullible? Who? Me? Winky jumped onto my desk, and immediately the young man pushed his chair back. He probably thought he’d be safe at that distance, but he hadn’t seen how far Winky could jump. “Get down!” I tried to push Winky off the desk, but he managed to avoid my arm. His meowing grew louder as he walked around in circles, directing his attention first at me and then at the young man. “Sorry about this.” I forced a smile, and pressed the intercom. “Mrs V?” “Hello.” Mrs V’s voice crackled

I’ve seen every episode of Murder, She Wrote, and I adore Angela Lansbury to pieces. But you’d have to be insane to let Jessica Fletcher within ten yards of your house. Talk about harbingers of death.

When dogs leap on to your bed, it’s because they adore being with you. When cats leap on to your bed, it’s because they adore your bed. —Alisha Everett

He slipped the gold fob-watch out of his waistcoat, flicked open the cover and stared at the dial. The Cat had replaced the conventional numbers with a series of symbols, which stood for 'food', 'sex', 'snooze', 'light snooze', 'heavy snooze', 'major sleep', 'self-adoration hour', 'preening' and 'bathtime'. Right now, it was twenty past sex, or, to put it another way, quarter to food.

For some reason, possibly known only to my therapist, I decided that Dippy looked so adorable this morning, as she lay gently snoozing on my jacket, that she just had to allow me to cuddle her. This was an error of a magnitude found somewhere between "invade Poland in the winter" and "hold my beer and watch this.

Longganisa was curled up on her bed beneath my desk but stood up to greet me. Today, she was outfitted in a leaf-patterned hoodie that bore the Brew-ha Cafe logo. Cute, simple, and practical since Longganisa hated the cold. I clipped on her leash and led her around the cafe. Her usual admirers surrounded us, and we spent some time on pets and belly rubs. When we got to the front of the shop, Leslie was helping Adeena bag her order. "Longganisa, show your Tita Adeena some love." Adeena was more of a cat person, but she loved my little wiener dog almost as much as I did. Longganisa adored her as well, and Adeena was the only person other than me and Jae who was allowed to pick her up. Even Tita Rosie didn't get that privilege. Adeena snuggled Longganisa close to her chest, and Longganisa rewarded her with a few licks. "Oh, my bestest girl. Your kisses will sustain me through all my family lecturing.

We inaugurate the evening Just drumming up a little weirdness It gets late so early now The waves come in in mountain phases Linked impossibilities Branching possibilities I’d see fire where it's not supposed to be In the empty library at suppertime By the respirating basement door The dog eats out of an old tambourine on the floor I’ve been told you can live a long, long time on the love of a dog And that things get bitter and bad When the people are wrong And sleep can be had for the price of a song Late in the day When the options are gone When the seatbelt’s the only hug you’ve felt in weeks When wrong numbers are the totality of your social life The obscure strategies of wildlife Only flummox the hell out of you, kid I first saw her in a megastore The Day-Glo raven Born into a free fall Like plastic Easter basket grass Falling from an overpass The fulfillment of a tenth grade prophecy A motel masterpiece Blind to the branching possibilities Blind to linked impossibilities Teardrops were standing in my eyes Like deer before they bolt It was like I was stretching my arm through the cat door to heaven I was thinking I could lick the frosting off these summer days if nights were half as sweet Me like a banged up dog walking half sideways I adored the way she modified my mornings When I’d wake up in the calm shoals of her bed Somersaults and smoke and a universe of sleep Before she slipped into her heritage And disappeared Now every second thought is out of control I guess in a way I long to be rad When I was with her it felt wrong to be sad Did I tell you an angel finally came and shut my mouth? There was a smile and a tear in her voice too And she taught me To relight Relight and relight again They tell me you can live a long, long time on the love of a dog Things get bitter and bad And sleep can be had Late in the day when the options seem gone Please let your eyes be a friend to me again It’s just malfunctioning teardrops A cowboy overflow of the heart

And so they stick to traps and tricks. And if one takes any of these informal fallacies home in hopes of making pets of them, giving them tidy roosts and appropriate newspaper potty spots in your brain, the mayhem will soon commence. You will soon find your mental furniture shredded, dead birds in your frontal lobe, wriggling worms in your moral outrage, and what can only be excrement in your aesthetic sense. And worst of all, you—like a hoarding cat lady—might be too far gone to even notice, because the culprits will be busily holding your loving gaze with wide glistening eyes. You might even find yourself voting for politicians because they promise to build us all a bridge to the future. As though someone was going to build one to somewhere else? The danger these creatures represent is considerable. The economic devastation they have caused has run up into the trillions, and that is just under the current administration.1 Families are under strain because Mom persists in saying “just because.” Climate change activists

And so they stick to traps and tricks. And if one takes any of these informal fallacies home in hopes of making pets of them, giving them tidy roosts and appropriate newspaper potty spots in your brain, the mayhem will soon commence. You will soon find your mental furniture shredded, dead birds in your frontal lobe, wriggling worms in your moral outrage, and what can only be excrement in your aesthetic sense. And worst of all, you—like a hoarding cat lady—might be too far gone to even notice, because the culprits will be busily holding your loving gaze with wide glistening eyes. You might even find yourself voting for politicians because they promise to build us all a bridge to the future. As though someone was going to build one to somewhere else? The danger these creatures represent is considerable. The economic devastation they have caused has run up into the

muscle strength. And so they stick to traps and tricks. And if one takes any of these informal fallacies home in hopes of making pets of them, giving them tidy roosts and appropriate newspaper potty spots in your brain, the mayhem will soon commence. You will soon find your mental furniture shredded, dead birds in your frontal lobe, wriggling worms in your moral outrage, and what can only be excrement in your aesthetic sense. And worst of all, you—like a hoarding cat lady—might be too far gone to even notice, because the culprits will be busily holding your loving gaze with wide glistening eyes. You might even find yourself voting for politicians because they promise to build us all a bridge to the future. As though someone was going to build one to somewhere else? The danger these creatures represent is considerable. The economic devastation

muscle strength. And so they stick to traps and tricks. And if one takes any of these informal fallacies home in hopes of making pets of them, giving them tidy roosts and appropriate newspaper potty spots in your brain, the mayhem will soon commence. You will soon find your mental furniture shredded, dead birds in your frontal lobe, wriggling worms in your moral outrage, and what can only be excrement in your aesthetic sense. And worst of all, you—like a hoarding cat lady—might be too far gone to even notice, because the culprits will be busily holding your loving gaze with wide glistening eyes. You might even find yourself voting for politicians because they promise to build us all a bridge to the future. As though someone