Gushing about one's cat is an internet cottage industry. There are the cute stories, the adorable suppositions of what might be happening in their tiny, walnut brains, and pictures. Oh, god. Where would the internet be without the kitty pictures? We'd be down to eBay and porn.

And yet, here I am, talking about my cat.

We have a cat. A single, solitary cat. We call her Cat, because, well, it's short, it's sweet, it's what she is, and the sound "KAAAAAAAAAAT!!!!!" just ricochets off the walls in a very satisfying manner. She answers to "Cat." "Cat" and "Kitty" and "Kit-Kat" and very occassionally, "Kissy-Kitty," a name that makes Adam turn inside out.

She's six, this fat lump of black fur and allergies. She prefers me to Adam, the first animal in the history of the world to actually enjoy my company. I like her, too. There's something comforting when she springs onto the bed, crawls across my sort-of sleeping form, kneeds my shoulder into submission and conks out.

Sometimes, she drools on me.

Adam doesn't like to admit any affection for the cat. He makes menacing faces at her when he thinks I'm not looking. He claims to be allergic to her. He's master of the echoing "KAAAAAAAAT!!!!!!", channeling all the rage of Shatner at the end of Star Trek II (that's right, I just made that reference), fist-shaking and everything.

I have a lot of pity for the cat. She's the fourth animal, the only non-ferret creature, ignored, sometimes used as a table, and horrors of horrors, fed dried cat food. And yet, she's looking over my shoulder right now, purring, trying to worm her head onto the keyboard so I'll be forced to pet her instead of type.

If you put your head up to the monitor and listen, you can probably hear her purr. It's like hearing the ocean in a sea shell, only not.