There are, I may have mentioned in passing, two cats in the house.
One is a lean male. He’s a black and white who is clearly of the belief that the relatives of his that count are all panthers. He sleeps curled up in dark corners and his movements consist largely of prowls and leaps.
The other is a startlingly round female. She’s a tabby with a gorgeous gingery tummy; albeit rather more gingery tummy than one would have expected. She sleeps. Anywhere. Her movements are, of necessity, painfully deliberate.
The two are siblings. This is possible because the mating habits of cats would make a footballer blush. The two animals lollop and leap around the house, between them exhibiting two remarkably different lifestyles.
I’m beginning to think that we don’t keep pets for company. We keep them as moral fables.