The British One left early this morning to help some other humans paint a teahouse in Cincinnati. This means it's just me and Softie in the house, which is just like old times. Softie has been graced by my presence in her life for the past seventeen years. I've been letting her care for me since I was a tiny kitten, full of energy and mischief.
Softie loves to sing to me, although I have to admit that sometimes her tuneless warbling makes my ears hurt. I enjoy the attention, and as I am normally on her lap when she sings, I get lots of stroking, petting and chin scratches. It's worth the inconvenience of tone-deafness. A big plus is also that she substitutes certain words in the songs and turns them into songs about me! The themesong to "Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang" becomes "Pretty Pretty Kitty" and "Ice Ice Baby" becomes "Black Black Kitty." She and the British One have lots of shiny round music makers, and whenever they listen to them she can turn any regular song into a song about me. It's very flattering.
I am a much better singer than either of the humans. I don't sing as much as I used to, but in my prime I could really belt out a mournful number in the middle of the night. I found 3am to be perfect for a concerto. I would find a suitable spotlight to sit in--the moonlight streaming in the kitchen window was always nice--and I'd sing mournful songs about loss and woe. Sometimes I would bring my favorite stuffed toy into the spotlight with me and sing songs of heroic struggle and death, and then try to rip the stuffing out of it.
Sometimes when the windows are open I hear other cats singing their songs in the night, but all modesty aside, my songs are easily much better than theirs. My rhymes are top notch and my tunes are very catchy.
Not to toot my own horn too much, but I am considered the Paw McCatney of the musikitty world.