He’s a creature of habit and ritual, this old cat. He likes his nightly smooch in front of the telly. Tonight I am not watching. He sprawls on the coffee table and cries out. He sounds as if he wants food or to be let out the door, but it’s neither of those things. He is not at the food bowl. He is not at the door. He doesn’t stop calling until I get up from my computer, walk over, reach down and scratch behind his ears and under his chin; until I tell him what a good and beautiful fellow he is; until I butt heads with him gently; until I fetch the comb and remove his excess fur. ’I could weave it into a rug,’ I tell him. He purrs.