Poor Rannie

     Rannie the cat has had soft, gravy-covered cat food the last two feedings, since she has decided the dry stuff is too much work to eat (unless she can get me to hand feed her).

     She eats it in a quirky way, carefully lapping up all of the gravy before turning her attentions to the chunks of food.  The entire time, she glances every so often at the closed door between the front and back parts of the house.  Huck waits on the other side, having gulped down his food as quickly as he could.  Rannie knows as soon as I open it, he'll come dashing through. The thought worries her.

     I try to reassure her but as far as Rannie is concerned, I'm only occasionally an acceptable Mommy.  Even sitting on the couch after she's been fed, she'll curl up next to me, purr, smooth on me, nap awhile with her head pillowed on my hand -- then suddenly sit up, give me a shocked look, and be off in search of Tam: You're not my Mommy!

     No, little cat, I'm not.  I cherish your occasional affection nonetheless.