Archie is a high-maintenance whore. He's a seven and a half year old Alpha-male cat -- a domestic short hair with patterns that make him look like a small furry cow. I've had him and his sister, Charlotte (more on her in another post) since August 2000. Archie is good looking, and knows it; he's nimble; he's too bright for his own good, and he's slowly plotting my demise -- I'm sure of it.
The way I always describe my current abode is that it's really Archie's apartment. I just pay the rent, feed him, and replace his litter (and my husband just cleans the place). But make no mistake -- we are permitted to live here at his pleasure. *sighs*
Archie is painfully territorial. There is not a surface in this apartment -- well, not one six inches off the ground -- that isn't slathered in cat schmutz. Archie rubs his head on everything. Newcomers might mistakenly view this as affection. It's not. It's his way of asserting ownership of and dominance over every space and item with which he comes into contact. (I suppose I should thank my lucky stars that he's stopped spraying things; a former "malicious pee-er," he used to piss on anything that was both dear to me and expensive to dry clean to get his way....)
Archie is also notorious for making miscellaneous cloths -- including bed sheets, bath mats, and the occasional cashmere sweater, or his sister -- his bitch. It's not uncommon to find him rolling on his side, grasping an item with his fore-paws, and scratching the hell out of it with his rear claws, as shown in the picture on the left.
He's nocturnal, he's demanding, he's vocal (especially at night), he bites his sister, he makes my husband sneeze, and he has terrible breath. And yet, he makes my life richer and more interesting just by being there.
I can't imagine that I could continue to post without talking about the little guy. He drives us nuts at my place, but he's so intrinsically part of the family that he is the subject of more conversations than I ever would have expected.
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