I have three kitties: Ollie, Bruce, and Clark. My own personal Justice League, protecting us from the evils of mice.

And they are much like their fictional counterparts.

Ollie is genial, sweet, even. Just don’t pick a fight. As any number of cats in our neighborhood learned before he became indoor kitty.

Clark is super friendly, with no real idea how damn big he is. His previous owner never taught him to stop the ‘cute’ kitten biting and now he’s fifteen pounds of cat.

And then there’s Bruce. Poor baby hid in the basement for weeks when we brought him home. He’s not fond of strangers, and tends to bolt if anybody moves too fast.

But in the last year, he’s started coming out of his shell, checking out visitors, and even letting the kids pet him on occasion.

On quiet mornings, when the kids are in school, and I’m working, he’s become a companion.  He sits on my lap purring, or helps me with my editing.

And then there are these mornings… where I’m an constantly putting him on the floor. Only for his furry behind to climb right back on the table, and rub against my laptop.

So I head to the living room, only for Ollie to take his place.

(I tried to take his picture, but a black cat in a dark corner… yeah, no).

I finally pet Ollie into submission, and there’s Clark, pushing my laptop aside, kneeding at my legs.

I swear these three are worse than the kids. At least with the kids, I can send them outside.

So I may or may not get this chapter written today…