The other night while I washed dishes, Harold the cat was busy sleeping on the couch, and Benson was busy cuddling him. “Harold, what do you smell like?” Benson asked, rubbing Harold’s armpits.
I called from the kitchen, “He smells good! I smell him all the time – he’s like…like, warm and soft smelling.”
“You’re right! He smells nice,” he said, burrowing his nose into Harold’s belly. “Do you want to come smell him with me?”
I dried my hands on a dishtowel and walked over and knelt down beside Benson and smelled our cat with him.
And then we remembered that we live this close to our neighbors:
“It looks like we’re nursing from our cat,” Benson said, his voice muffled from Harold’s fur.
“Yeah, we better stop,” I agreed, glancing out the window as I pulled my face away from Harold’s girth.
Then I got back to washing dishes.
And Benson still does not love cat.
Stuff I Talk About 