My dad is one of the strongest, meanest people I know.  I say that with all respect and love.  He’s my dad.

When we were growing up, he was a dog person.  We had two little black dogs over the years.  I had several cats, but he was not amused by them.  Heck, he didn’t even tolerate them.  They were indoor-outdoor cats, mostly outdoor, and he was not sad when they were no more.  And I can understand that.  Cats are not for everyone.  Even now, as the owner of two cats, I’m not always amused by them.  They are not necessarily amused by me, either, which makes us even, I suppose.

But my dad has become a cat person.  Not exactly “crazy cat lady” cat person, but he has two cats.  Technically, one of the cats belongs to his wife, my step mom.  But the person petting that cat, giving that cat treats, letting it lick the vanilla ice cream off the Klondike Bar Wrapper, that is my dad. Samantha, a smoky grey rather elderly cat, spends her nights sitting in his lap, letting him endlessly pet her head.

Samantha, the elderly cat.

A few months ago they added another cat to the harem.  Sibley is about 2 years old, about half the size of a normal cat, and plays like a kitten.  She has the prettiest eyes, and a slightly flat face.  Her eyes are very expressive, like she’s wearing makeup or something.  Tater has had a blast “cat-fishing” with a piece of string.  Sibley runs and runs and doesn’t seem to get tired.  She’s adorable.

And my dad adores her.  He looks for her, pets her, talks to her.  And this is so not like my dad.  I’m glad to see he does have a softer side.  Even if it took a couple of kitty-kats to bring it out.

Sibley, who is really a very pretty cat, despite the fact that she looks a little mean here.

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