Henry, from the day we brought him home from the shelter, was 17 pounds of orange-striped irritable. He’s not cuddly, playful, or even nonchalant. He bites. And he prefers that you just leave him alone, permanently.
Henry grew on us like a mild but contagious virus. We actually like him, for reasons that only therapy would help us fully grasp.
And Olive, from the day we brought her home from the shelter, has absolutely adored Henry.
Olive eats from Henry’s plate (we finally quit putting one out for her because she utterly refused to eat unless he was eating, and she had to eat with her little nose touching his), she pounces on Henry’s head, and as you can see from the photo above, she lounges on Henry’s perch.
Henry swears like a sailor whenever Olive’s around. He refuses to use her name, and only refers to her scathingly as “Junior.” He bats at her, chases her, and lets her jump on his head. He spouts invective and scowls at her.
I’ve decided Olive is Italian, because she’s utterly oblivious to Henry’s frequent rants.
She only speaks the language of amore.
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