It may come as a surprise to our cat, Angel, that I do not speak cat. Not fluently, anyway. But she keeps talking to us as if we understand and await her each beckoning meow.

(I do not know if her meows can be classified as “beckoning.'” She might be telling me to eff off, but I choose to believe that I understand her various vocalizations as beckoning.)

My girlfriend (you’ve met her) had to go to work a little early this morning. She and I parted, and I went upstairs to put on my work clothes (I don’t write this website in sweats).

From downstairs I heard a cry: “Oooooww.” It was not my girlfriend, and by now I actually recognize our cat’s voice over the voices of other cats. A quick-footed scamper followed across our tiled foyer.

I went downstairs and there Angel was, looking in our bedroom. She scampered back past me, and looked up at me as she jogged past, as if to say, “Why aren’t you looking for her, too?”

I looked down at her and told her that Jen had left and she would be back soon. Angel walked into the kitchen, peered around the counter as if she expected to see Jen there at the sink (a reasonable expectation for a cat … another reasonable expectation involves tuna and that sink). Once she established for herself with her own eyes and nose that her chief, her number one human, was gone, she jogged into the living room, jumped on the sofa and gave me a look that said, “Why aren’t you petting me to ease my separation anxiety?”

When Jen comes home at night and goes upstairs to change, Angel will sit with me but gaze expectantly at our staircase as she awaits Jen’s return down the stairs. With each sound from up above, Angel edges closer to the end of the sofa. Once Jen returns, Angel bolts from my side (she often precedes this with a look at me that I can choose to believe is a thank you) and follows her into the living room.

The photo above is of Angel waiting for her number one human to return downstairs.

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