My mom is in Spain for two weeks celebrating her sister's 60th birthday, so I get to house-sit. Actually it's more like house-visit, as I'm not actually sleeping there. I just stop by twice a day to water her ridiculous number of plants, take in the mail, and feed the cats.
My mom has two cats: Callie and Dinah. Callie we've had since I was fourteen, but I can't call her mine because I've never really bonded with her. I spent the majority of my childhood and teen years treating our family pets (seven in all, though never more than three at a time) like either mildly interesting props or pains the ass, depending on my hormone levels. I maintain that my pet-mittment phobia stems from an experience in 1985 when I found a stray, named him Charlie, and watched as he was repo'ed by his owners a few days later. But anyway.
Callie and Dinah are an odd couple. Calle, 15, is scrawny and unobtrusive. She mostly keeps to herself and has taken, in her later years, to finding new spots to shit in other than the litterbox. For a while we thought she was kind of a genius because she started peeing in the toilet, but now she poops in my mom's ficus tree, so the jury is still out.
Dinah, 3, is huge. Seriously, she is like a sumo cat. We had to get her back shaved because she couldn't reach it to groom herself and it was growing dreads. My mom is very sensitive about this and I can attest to the fact that Dinah eats a bland and relatively meager diet of dry cat food, so there's no reason she should be that big. We think Dinah is actually not fat at all but instead simply has duplicates of most of her organs. Laugh if you want, but she's got thirteen toes and we have documented proof that her brother Fluffy has three testicles.
When I go over there tonight I'm going to try to document them for your viewing pleasure -- stay tuned.