Thisbe, the Sovereign Cat Who Owns My Soul, But Does She Love Me?

Thisbe is a little black tabby of the usual sort, composed of the usual claws, teeth, and fur. Yet, I behold her as a praiseworthy being whose every nuance of character furthers her into a rare realm of exaltedness. When she purrs with adoring affection, I sigh. And when she prances while tilting her head with eyes blinking in bliss as she basks in devotion, I fall to my knees and, in impotent trance, I pet her shining fur coat. And as she tires of my loving massage, I devise devices to maintain her attention.

I toss rattling mousies and roll rubber balls. And Thisbe rewards my exertion -- she wiggles her rear, leaps in the air, and battles the mousies down. With all fours, she clutches them to her chest; she chews and claws them up. Then, she runs after rolling balls until boredom glazes her eyes. And I fear her playtime is done. But the sight of a speeding spider gives hope and I promptly spotlight him to Thisbe. She runs him down and bats him around until he's a legless ball. Then, as I guiltily study his state, she writhes and rubs her head on the floor.

Awash with renewed admiration, I start speaking my kitty twaddle. Thisbe idly eyes me and then quite suddenly quickly licks her coat. Then she jumps to her feet, lifts off the ground, and lands before the computer. The screensaver flees; Thisbe tilts her head. In less than a tic, she smacks the cursor, as still as a dead black fly. Then, throwing a cursory glance my way, she bounds to a windowsill and presses her nose to the pane. And being named for Pyramus's Thisbe in A Midsummer Night's Dream, she sputters Shakespearean verse in enthralled friendly tones to birds on the wing. Then she turns and sputters to me.