Two and a half cats

We had a dog and three children and the three children all left home and the dog died. Isn't this supposed to be the part where life begins again?
That worked for a season. Okay, we had those 'freedom' years...a few, anyway.
Suddenly we got older and spent some time recuperating and what's more therapeutic than a pet? Our kids had pets; dogs, cats, birds, horses, hamsters. They loved those creatures. Why couldn't we have some of that charming company?
So we got cats; two scrawny, ordinary short haired (abundantly short haired) cats.
That was over five years ago. Life has changed considerably for us. We now share our little retirement cottage with these two manipulative, egotistical super-egos on a pay on demand basis. They demand, we pay. In short, they own us. Not that they are ungrateful. Henry, the one and a half sized twenty one pound orange tabby, thanks me by rubbing my leg whenever I top off his food dish. If I'm wearing black, I get rubbed twice. Gracie, the one size cat, is easy to feed and brush and snuggle, and believes herself to be transparent by the amount of time she spends between me and my computer screen. Henry languishes on my mouse pad and with his leviathan tail swishes my resource books and notes and everything else across the office floor with a flourish.
Now I'm not complaining. I adore these two spoiled creatures to a fault. They own my computer desk, my kitchen counter, my green plants, my furniture, my throw rugs, my bathroom and my silly heart.
Sure, I am miserable when we're out of town because I worry about the lonely little monsters. Sure, we'd like to have nicer screens on the windows; ones without cat claw marks.
Sure, it would be nice to have chairs in the living room not labeled "cat scratching post".
But life's short. And Chippendale chairs don't purr and snuggle you and make you laugh and sigh and relax.
Cats rule. Surprise.