He is the only one who cuddles me. I am the only one who cuddles him. One aging cat with scattered white hairs and brilliant blue eyes. One who does not act his age but sleeps like it. One spirited Himalayan rescued by a loving family. From my room, I can hear him meowing, but I stay in bed and do not open the door.
His mood is sporadic. He lays adorably spread out on the ground. He stretches up and he stretches down and grabs onto my hand with his fluffy paws and bites my hand with gentle teeth and never quit this charade. This is how he plays.
Let him forget his age, he rolls around like gambling dice on a table, his tail following his every move. Play, play, play he says when I sleep. He meows.
When I am too sad and too wrapped up to keep playing, when I am a little human against so many others, then it is I look at my cat. When there is nothing left to do in my home. One who plays despite his age. One who pounces and does not forget to pounce. One whose only reason is to play and play.