She has such a personality these days—and while I won't commit one way or another how I find it, I must say that it is entertaining. She's quirky like me and clumsy like Nick...and vise versa, too. She loves French Onion Sun Chips and licks the butter from your toast if you leave it unattended. As we drift to sleep, the wall-mounted LCD on timer, she can often be found at the end of the bed, braced up on her front paws against the foot board, her ears perked forward to watch the CSI rerun.

She snubs broccoli—my über food—and turns in disgust while I kickbox. She finds my sweaty body scandalous and wastes no time in looking at me with eyes that place me in a cave with a pelt-toga and disgruntled extras from the Geico commercials. Her tail straightens up into a plume and she walks away, paying me and my evolutionarily retarded lifeform no mind. I imagine vividly that one day I will return to find her belly up in the recliner with Sun Chip crumbs nestled in her fur and remote under paw. To say the least, she has inherited our bad habits, taking in none of the good.

And though I am irritated that she won't let me sleep past a certain point, I am secretly tickled that she wants to spend time with me—you know, after I've showered and scrubbed the broccoli stench from my breath—and I love those brief moments in the still of morning when she doesn't want to play, she doesn't want treats, and she doesn't want to gnaw on the pet repellent pellets we put in the houseplants....when all that she does want, is me.