His name is Sammy, named after Sammy Sosa, because he was originally my daughter's cat, and she was a big Sosa fan in the Cub years. He's a long-haired white cat with green eyes and a fluffy mane and a long tail.
This cat has no claws: he's defenseless. Yet this does not hinder him from stalking, successfully, moles, mice and sadly the occasional bird.
He's very quiet--he only meows when he's been stuck in the house awhile when we're on a trip, or he's been thrown in the basement for bad behavior.
He does purr when petted.
He likes to lay up in the corner of the loft, where he can look down on the livingroom, and pretend he is Simba from The Lion King.
One time Tony's long-gone kitten, Indy, was up there the day she was declawed. In her adolescent excitement she fell through the wooden slates onto the coffee table, almost on Tony's head. She hit her claws and they started to bleed and we had to first aid her awhile before it calmed down. One life down.
Our old cat, Tippy, did not much care for the loft. She tended to find out of the way places to sleep where we couldn't bother her. Of course, she was really a boy--her gender being mistaken by the vet ladies on her first visit, and only discovered by my when she was caught doing the wild thing with a pair of Ang's furry slippers.
However, even after discovering her maleness, we still called her "her" out of lazy habit.
Tippy was a fat, lazy cat herself, who lived a long and luxurious life until succumbing to an oral ailment. Tippy had small use for Sammy, but would condescend to play with him once in a while, when it suited her. They'd chase each other around the downstairs, then wrestle a minute, then Tippy (fat) would sit on Sammy (thin) and it was over.
Sammy thinks he owns the house, he can sleep absolutely anywhere, demands to be fed fresh food three times a day, insists his litter box be spotlessly clean, and lets himself be petted behind the ears when he's in the mood.
I can't tell him any differently.
So, how about you? Who rules the roost on your farm?