My life is some version of a Tex Avery cartoon. It's just me, the dog and the cat. Jamaica struts and preens, glowers and growls. Angel, now approaching seventeen, is bald for the most part and looks pretty pitiful. She is, despite appearances, the boss.
It's 3:00 am. We're all up because Angel wanted to eat. Well, now I love her dearly but she wanted to eat at midnight, too.
She will swish her tail in Jamaica's face on her way back up to the bed. Since such behavior has not resulted in any real physical altercation in the ten years that they've been together, I'm guessing that we're all okay.
When solicitors call and ask for the head of the household she usually sleeps right through it.