Lacey And Manx: [cracked]

If you had told me two years ago that I would be living in a home ruled by two felines—one who thinks she’s a porcelain doll and another who thinks he’s a rabbit—I would have laughed you out of the room. I was a "dog person." I liked my pets straightforward: walks, fetch, slobber. Cats were cryptic.

You get mornings where the delicate calico grooms the tailless terror. You get evenings where the tailless terror chases the delicate calico up the cat tree, only to get swatted on the nose.

He was a chunky, round-bodied grey kitten with a fluffy nub where his tail should have been. A true Manx. And he had the personality of a rugby player who just drank an espresso. lacey and manx

From day one, Lacey made her rules clear.

You get a full heart and a destroyed rug. If you had told me two years ago

Putting together a household with these two has been less like pet ownership and more like producing a reality TV show titled Real Housewives of the Living Room . Here is the long, winding, fur-covered story of how a lacey lady and a tailless tornado taught me about love, boundaries, and the art of the 3 AM zoomie. Lacey came first. I found her at a local rescue, tucked away in the corner of a cage, looking like a Victorian ghost who had seen better centuries. She is a dilute calico with the softest fur you have ever felt—like dandelion fluff. The rescue had named her "Lacey" because of her dainty white paws and the lace-like pattern of her orange spots.

She sits on the back of the sofa, never the seat. She looks out the window not to hunt, but to judge the squirrels for their poor posture. For the first six months, Lacey was the perfect cat for a introvert. She was quiet, clean, and emotionally unavailable. I adored her. You get mornings where the delicate calico grooms

She does not "meow." She trills . It is a polite, questioning chirp that translates roughly to, "Excuse me, human, but my salmon pâté is slightly below room temperature."