All cats have attitude. It's part of their charm. If you don't get the cold shoulder or silent treatment from them at least once a day, take them to the vet because they're sick. This is, perhaps, why there are so many cat-hating dog-lovers in the world.

I enjoy a pet with spunk. I will always be a cat person.

Friskey was a gift for my ninth birthday. I remember staring at the kittens in the window and aching so badly just to have one of them for my very own. That was before I was old enough to know that nobody actually owns a cat. It's totally the other way around. When Debbie surprised me with the invitation to choose a kitten, the choice was easy. There was only one calico amongst the mewing darlings.

Poor cat. She had a little girl as a primary care provider, a little girl who would wrap her in a blanket, place her in a doll buggy, and give her water through a bottle. She was a very serene cat, and didn't mind participating in the odd behavior. And, why would she? She had it MADE.

These pampered beginnings allowed her to develop an altogether interesting personality. She's lazy, preferring that people carry her from room to room instead of walking there herself. She likes to be treated like a human, and participate in the family's daily activities—or mine, in any event. Whenever I am speaking to someone, she crawls out from wherever she's hiding (beneath a bed, usually) to sit and front of me and listen as she looks on.

This past week, I've been engaging in regular Yoga practice—a very interesting experience with a curious feline. I was doing a headstand the other day, and she walked up to my face, which was near to the floor as well as upside down, and began pressing her nose to mine. Seemingly anxious, she paced back and forth in front of me. This was a tricky situation. I really needed to get out of the pose. My upper body was growing fatigued, my muscles quivering. The cat was pacing the floor space I required to come down safely. After a time, she stopped and stared at me for what seemed like years. Bored, she went off to eat. "I'M SAVED!" ran through my head no less than 50 times while I dismounted.

I was doing the full wheel pose yesterday, and she decided to wind around my feet and hands. My cat, photographed here with me (to give you an idea of her scale—my apologies on the blurriness), is not the svelte thing she imagines herself to be. Her "winding" is less graceful and more drunkenly than is befitting of her species. I have very ticklish feet. My palms perspire when I get anxious. She decided to recline directly beneath my bent back. Hands and feet twitching for release, I had no recourse but to wait until she decided to move.

I don't understand her participation. Perhaps she's jealous that I just might be more flexible than she—or, more likely, perhaps she's worried that I've lost my mind. Two nights ago I settled into child's pose, and she plopped herself atop my back and meowed incessantly as if to wail, "Somebody look! She's being so freaky!"