From his first night with us, Bitey was different. When you sit on the sofa, resting your forearm on the cushion where he's sitting, Bitey will reach out and delicately put his paw on your arm, just to let you know he's there, and you're his.
Bitey spoons. Seriously. If you are curled up on your side in bed, he likes to curl right up next to your chest and purr. He even lets you tuck your arm around him and hold him like a teddy bear.
Bitey craves human attention. Like a dog. If you are reading, Bitey will jump up on the bed and settle all sixteen pounds of himself right in front of your book. Then he will look at you, victorious and unashamed. He also can detect "fake reading"-- a useless attempt to lure the cat off the person who is desperately trying to read the last chapter of a Stephen King novel.
I wonder why Bitey is so loving and personable. Sometimes I think his time on the streets frightened him so much that close contact with humans makes him feel safe. But everyone's seen "domesticated" street cats before, and very few of them will allow you to nuzzle their nose with yours without taking a swipe.
Then I thought it was because we found him so young. He was just a baby, less than four months old, hardly enough time to develop into a hardened kitty orphan. But some cats can be born into the most secure environments, stay with their mothers forever and end up as complete kitty jerks.
When we found out about Bitey's condition, I had a thought. Is it possible that somewhere inside him, Bitey senses his life could be very short? Does he shine so brightly because he fears the light will go out too soon? Or am I just imposing bad poetry on my genial cat because I fear losing him so much?
Perhaps, despite all this lovey mumbo jumbo, the answer is simple. Bitey loves us because we feed him.
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