My cats. I love them so.

I talk to my cats. Out loud, of course. Because I want them to hear me. It’d be nice if they understood. Maybe they do. But it’s really a monologue. I don’t expect much, if any response. Though sometimes I pretend that they are telling me something. Not in spoken words. But in thought. They tell me what I want to hear. And maybe that’s why I talk to them. Helps me create a dialogue. More or less with myself.  My cats have names. Loverboy.  Chenuska. They seem like real people. Therefore, it’s natural. To talk to my cats. That’s funny. I call them ‘my cats.’ Why is that? People don’t belong to me. But cats/pets do?  It’s like I own them. A bit arrogant, isn’t it? Like when masters owned slaves. I’d rather think of my cats as free and independent. In a sense, they are. But they’ve been domesticated. And they need care. Loving care, really. In some sense of the word, I ‘love’ my cats more than I love people. My neighbor could die, and I’d shed no tears. But when my cats die, I cry. And feel real remorse. As if I have lost a true love. So maybe that’s why I talk to my cats. I love them so. –Jim Broede