Well, you wanted to know more about me. I’m good looking. There’s no need to tell you that. You see the photo, not my best. I wasn’t posing in the shot above. It’s my, what in the world are you up to now, look. One never knows what’s next with humans. But this is about me. I’ve got a fine soft pelt—two layers of luxurious fur. That’s how I got my name. Hello, I’m Amber . . . sounds so sexy—suave. I have my nails done every other week and get combed twice a day when I’m in the mood. I stay on a good diet and am at a purrrfect weight if you know what I mean. Seven and a half pounds you’d love to hold in your arms or on your lap—but I’m not easy. My best feature might well be my eyes. They are quite striking, large and deep, almost hypnotic . . . provocative.
I live with Bucks. He doesn’t like ‘Buckminster,’ that’s his real name, but he thinks it sounds too pussy. Right. He thinks he’s so tough. You should have seen him at the doctor’s office, hissing and growling. I pretended like I didn’t know him. He’s bigger than me; he’s got that going for him, but he’s not the smartest cat in the yard. Like yesterday.
There’s boxes everywhere. We’ve got a pair of humans working for us and they’re always up to something. Now they’re going to move. To Sweden of all places. My female human speaks to me in Swedish which I’ve never really understood, but that is not important. What’s important is that she can understand my relatively simple needs.
There was this stack of boxes and Bucks was showing off as usual. He attempted a daring leap to the top and almost made it but the stack tumbled when he landed. Bucks jumped clear and landed on his tail. There was a crash and then a scream . . . my female caretaker. . . something about China. I thought we were going to Sweden—but whatever.
Bucks was embarrassed. He hates it when I see him do something stupid which is not infrequent. He’s been sulking all a day and hitting the catnip. He’ll probably nod off soon and I’ll have a chance to work with my yarn, or maybe lay in the sunlight for a while. I have a place by the front room window. You wouldn’t believe what I see some times . . . and late at night.
Oh, God. Here he comes, walking with what he thinks is a swagger, but looks more like he’s had some kind of hip injury. He can’t handle his catnip—never could. This should me interesting.
“Where’s my mouse?” He wants to know.
“My gray one with the catnip inside of course. The one you’re always moving.”
“It’s probably under the couch. You’re always leaving stuff there.”
“Not there,” he says. “I looked.”
“You looked . . . .” I tell him in a snarky way.
“I looked,” he says again. “You’ve put it somewhere.”
Right. I wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot tail, but after while I gave it up and found it for him. Guess where . . . under the couch. What is it with males always losing things?