Take Dramamine or Glucophage, as your system requires.
That is Mystery — the least mysterious cat in the world, a big gay blond hairdresser who goes about seventeen pounds on the paw — and his little sister Seven. (Tiger Lily didn’t make it into the picture; she is still hiding under the bed.) Idiot college students had a cat named Bast who “ooops! Got out!” two years in succession. The Cute Engineer, who knew them as guests of his old group house, lowered the boom with the second litter of eight and had Bast spayed on a payment plan.
These three came to live at the house, though, and isn’t it amazing how people will book out of a living situation and oh, no, sorry, can’t take the cat?
Hence, the seven cats at my place. One of whom is named Seven. It’s just too twee.
Mystery loves everybody. He’s even won over Mr. Ferguson (to the extent that they ritually bump heads and then ignore each other every morning; when Mystery attempted to groom Fergie, his main way of relating to other cats, Fergie backed away and seemed to say “Only my wife gets to do that”). Nickel Catmium startled-jumped and bugged out her eyes when she saw him, so we may need to pace that for a while.
No problem. He has enough to keep him busy.