One tough kitty?

That's my Rocky. We think he's 13. And he's still pretty darn frisky. He was doing moves the other night that would make any running back jealous.

Kitties are such creatures of habit. I love that. When I can't depend on anything else, I can depend on Rocky. He comes in the bathroom with me every morning and stands between my legs when I'm sitting you-know-where. Until I pet him for a while. Any time I'm sitting on the couch, he's sure to be plastered against my side. When I lay on my right side in bed, with my right arm bent up to my pillow on the mattress, he always comes and folds his little paw into my palm and then lays the rest of himself on my arm. I love that.

When he was a kitten, I asked a girlfriend to help me name him. I wanted something masculine, so she came up with Rocky. And though he still loves to play (like with ribbon in the picture) and sometimes pretends to ignore me and bites me if I touch his back feet, well, he's really just a little pussy-cat. He loves me as much as I love him. In the photo, he was playing, but I called his name and he looked up at me. And Chris took the shot. He can't resist a chance to be petted and snuggled - by MOI alone. With Chris and Dustin, not so much. Dustin doesn't respect his space. And Chris just sends out "keep away" vibes most of the time. But Rocky and I have an understanding.

He almost died once and I remember just looking at him in the eyes and willing him to live and conveying to him how much I loved him. I think he got it...and he did live. He is one tough kitty.