THIS LITTLE GUY is Loki. He’s my bud. Of all six of our current herd, he’s the one who’s most firmly attached himself to me. This is about the first picture I took of him. And if this wasn’t taken on his first day in our house, I’m sure I don’t know why. It’s dated May 29, 2008, which is about right. And about 2 weeks later, we got Rommie, who died less than a year later.

You can tell from his posture here that he’s going to be a trouble maker. A trixter. And white. And dainty of foot, thus destined, it seemed then, to be a smallish cat. So, of course, we had to name him after the Norse frost giant trickster god, Loki. Terribly imaginative of me, I know, but it fit so perfectly that it had to be.

In my cats pictures folders, there are hundreds of pictures of Loki — not all as postable as this one,

I admit. But that there are so many indicates that he’s a handy subject. Yes, white, thus more easily caught in low light than Belle, who is inky black, but also … as they say … handy. Usually within arm’s reach of me, unless he’s asleep.

When I wake up every morning (to the alarm clock’s warning), as soon as I swing my feet out and onto the floor, there he is, underfoot, talking to me in his high, squeaky voice. Dunno what he’s saying, but it’s damned urgent, whatever it is. When I sit down at my desk, he takes up station in the office. When I head downstairs, he leads the way. He’s over there in the leather armchair right now. Just stood up to adjust his sleeping curl. As soon as I close the lid on the laptop, he’ll pop his head up, meow, jump down to the floor with a thud! and lead the way into the bedroom. Where he’ll check the time on the alarm clock and inspect my pillowlar arrangment before settling down for some head rubs and a brief snuggle before we drift off to sleep.

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