A Valentine to my cat. Yes, seriously.

I've always had a thing for animals. But my cat Teddy and I have a particularly good relationship. To be fair, he seems to have a good relationship with nearly everyone, human and animal alike. He got the name "Teddy" at the shelter because his temperament is more Teddy Bear than cat: he's cuddly and extremely tolerant, and seems designed to hug. You could probably put a broad bow around his neck, like an actual Teddy Bear, and he wouldn't object.

Since I'm the human he spends the most time around, I am the prime beneficiary of both Teddy's delightful qualities and his occasional quirks and oddities. (Oddities like his extra-long incisors, which scrape the insides of my elbows when he presses his face in the crook of my arm as we lie on the sofa reading. His teeth leave fine scratches that turn gently, allergically pink before fading.)

Teddy the cat is unflappable and Buddha-calm. You could light a firecracker next to him and he'd barely react, parade a marching band through the room and he's look up, but you wouldn't get more enthusiasm than that. The dogs chase after him, and half-maul him, putting his head in their mouths, slobbering on him and batting him around. Teddy is remarkably permissive, allowing quite a bit of torment before batting the dogs on the nose sharply to dismiss them, sending them yelping off to their crate in the kitchen.

I used to feel badly for Teddy, almost wanting to apologize to him for the indignities he suffers at the dogs' enthusiasm. But he's clearly okay with it. As with everything else in this world, he takes their silliness in stride, sometimes grumbling to me about it briefly in funny cat-talk, but otherwise allowing what is to simply be.

One of the more endearing things he does is purr himself to sleep when he lies curled with me in bed. Whichever way I'm turned, he positions himself in the "be spooned" position, with his spine pressed against my chest and his head tucked under my chin. When I roll over, he climbs over me and reorients himself in a mirror of our slumbering poses a moment before.

At first I didn't understand that the funny sound Teddy made, sometimes for many minutes nonstop, was purring. It sounded metallic and wheezy. I thought it might be asthma, or even pneumonia. I asked the veterinarian about it. He laid a stethoscope on Teddy's chest, listening intently and looking serious for a few moment. Then he smiled, slipped off his stethoscope, and handed Teddy back to me.

"Your cat doesn't have a respiratory problem," Mr. Johnson, the veterinarian told me with a chuckle."He's just unbelievably happy."

I love you, Teddy. You're the best shelter kitty ever.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Dad