Nothing like snuggling up for a cozy nap on a rainy day.
These are our two orange tabby cats, enjoying the not-heaven out of a Save A Lot box on top of Juno's dog house on the back porch. Yeah. It's a pet condo. Next to them is an open box commandeered by the black-and-white tuxedo-marked cat who eats his feeling. He is gigantic. He's been mad at us ever since his very special operation, supposed to be a spaying, until the vet kindly told Farmer H, "Um...this cat needs to be CASTRATED." So Stockings has never forgiven us for calling him the wrong gender all that time.
That's Simba on the left. We don't really like him very much. He started life as a mailbox kitten, dumped at the end of our road. He was the runt of the three we took in, pounded mercilessly by the other two and our two grown cats. We babied him. Then one day he started eating. Unlike fat Stockings, Simba grew into a muscular bully. No more cutesy weakling. He has a big head and a chip on his tawny shoulder.
Genius is on the right. He's truly orange, a beautiful specimen of felinity, a smart and loving companion who disappeared once for thirty days. We had given up hope. I thought somebody snatched him on a holiday weekend, what with many strangers out here riding four-wheelers and such, thinking our paradise is a shopping mart for all their creature wants. It's not like we put collars on our cats. When Genius appeared at the end of the month, we were SHOCKED. He was not dirty or bedraggled or thin. No long journey across the continent to come back home. We think somebody snatched him and kept him inside. Because from that point on, he has darted inside whenever the door is ajar, or pulled it open with his paws, or stood on hind legs trying to turn the doorknob with his front paws. He's the best cat ever.
Yesterday, they whiled away their time in peaceful coexistence. A box on the doghouse is better than a board in the garage rafters.