We tried to respond in kind. "Good boy. Yeah, OK. Good to see you, too. Yeesss. OK. You can stop slobbering on me now. OK. That's good. Yes. Off my chest now, whattaya say? Good dog. Atta boy. OK. Ohhhh, it's good to see you, too."

Spike, on the other hand, pretended he didn't even know us. Spike is the cat. He is a very, very, very fat cat. People ask if he's pregnant. They ask if he has a disease. He's neither pregnant nor diseased. He's just fat. Enormous, really. Big as all outdoors.

I mention this for two reasons. One, I don't really like Spike very much, so I take gratuitous digs at him whenever I can. Two, I think low self-esteem related to his gargantuan physique may explain his foul disposition. If he reads this article - and I think he will because although he's fat and grumpy, he's very smart - he will retaliate against me by swiping his claws across my ankles, drawing blood. He does this to get back at me for any number of grievances - most notably, not feeding him fast enough. I'm prepared.

Spike never cared for Bond. When we brought the precious little puppy home, Spike responded by hissing and swatting at him. Bond thought this was Spike's way of playing. He lumbered after Spike, sliding across the slick wood floors and banging into him in a big furry pile. Spike was not amused. He howled and arched his back and stuck his hair up like in the cartoons and took swings at the puppy. Bond still didn't catch on that the cat didn't like him. He thought this was another game and he tried to wrestle playfully with him as if Spike were another puppy. Spike hated this. He retreated to the top of a bookcase where he tormented Bond by sitting up there, looking down at him, untouchable.
That's the way Spike is. Too good for everybody else. When we returned home, he was even more aloof and spiteful than usual.