Spawn of Satan

So we have this cat named Orange. Some of you who are on familiar terms either with Orange or her sharp fangs can fully appreciate the reason she is also affectionately called "Spawn of Satan" by the general public. While her demeanor leaves a little to be desired (and if you put aside all the times I've applied hydrogen peroxide to tooth punctures on my kids' arms), Orange and I have a wonderful "understanding" that we've established over the years.
 
All day long I'm touched. Whether it's couch snuggle time, book reading lap sessions, tickle monster hysteria, or the "I want you to hold me, too! Put Silas down!' daily argument, I have lost all familiarity with the concept of personal space. I think I've gone to the bathroom maybe three times in the last two years where one or more kids haven't followed me in. Even I type this, Silas has his body draped over my arm and keeps struggling to climb into my lap.

And Rob? Rob needs such rules as "No hugging Cob while she's cooking" and "No touching Cob's stomach while she's doing her hair" - rules that he thinks are funny (and funny to break), but rules that are completely necessary to my sanity. (Note: the "No touching Cob's stomach while she's sitting" rule falls into a different category altogether. And I think I may have the support of the entire female population on this one.)

But Orange? Orange enters a room, sits 15 feet away, audibly purring, and just stares at me. I can see her give me a nod and blink her eyes slowly, which translates to, "You know I love you, right? K, let's just keep that fact between us - no one has to know. I'll come up later when you're watching TV by yourself." And I smile at her and murmur, "Hi Orange meow meow," which translates to, "Yes, please stay there and give me love from 15 feet away. I love you, too. And as long as you don't drool on me, I'll pet your head for two minutes later tonight for sure." Complete understanding. Without touching. It's just lovely.

I'll probably be yearning for a clamoring and needy dog (shudder) once the kids are both in school and get to the point where they want to throttle me, not snuggle with me. In the meantime, however, I'll take my prickly Spawn of Satan, bacteria-laden fangs and all.