“MEOW…MEOW!” I hear the insistent cry of Taylor and I smile. I am sneaking a few rare moments of rest in the recliner. Mike is on the computer, both of us sitting in the front room. I wait knowing there are more demands soon to come.

“MEOW-OW” Taylor hollers and Mike swivels in his wheelchair feigning annoyance.

“WHAT? WHAT?” He says to the long-haired gray-and-white senior kitty, long-time friend.

“MEOW” she insists. In English this means “Pay attention to me- right now!”

As if on cue, I say to him “Pet that cat!”

“What cat?” He counters with a smile, pointing to her. “THAT Cat?”

Yes, that cat indeed and as she performs this act several times in his day, her next step is to tap his chest impatiently with her front paw. She waits for him to unwrap himself from his warming blanket so she can wrap up with him.

I watch this exchange still smiling and remember back to when Taylor and her siblings arrived over twelve years ago…

It was the height of kitten season and Mike (who was recruited without my asking) to be my kitten assistant for any orphan kitty I brought home, he had 2 week old Taylor in his lap while he bottle fed her. Her littermates were snuggled down into his lap at times struggling to claim the bottle firmly attached to Taylor’s mouth impatiently waiting their turn mewing softly. I sat nearby with a second litter in my lap also bottle feeding.

Last night quite late, Mike’s daughter Donna had arrived from Utah. It was the first time she had seen her father since we got married. Both of us were busy with the kittens when Donna came bounding down the stairs.
She stopped on the landing, took in the scene before her and said “DADDY?”
Mike looked up and said “Good morning Donna, welcome to our home. What’s wrong?”

Donna approached slowly pointing at her father. She wore a puzzled look on her face and she said again “Daddy?”

“Yes Donna,” he said patiently. “What is it?’

Donna stopped in front of his chair and with a small voice said “But Daddy, you HATE cats!”

Startled, I looked up at this man I married. This was the first I had heard of his hatred for cats. Mike, juggling his lapful of kitties and still bottlefeeding Taylor looked at his daughter, then looked at me and said with a grin “Well maybe I do, but I love Mary Anne.”

Fast-forwarding back to the moment of Taylor’s insistence, I think of all the kittens who Mike has held, stimulated, fed and comforted realizing that Taylor knew earlier than anyone else (including Mike) how much he really loves cats.