Wingnut has always been a vocal cat. Not talkative, but willing to speak his mind with merps and tribbles and other minor utterances. It’s an endearing quality especially in a cat who excels at being silent.
Just now, as I sat on the couch working, he walked up to the cat tree where Abbie lay on the second tier and murred up at her. I looked over and told him he could get up there, that there was room for him, albeit in a hushed tone since I was the only one up. Wingnut stopped talking to Abbie and turned his attention to me, making a few noises before prancing towards the french doors to the dining room.
“Must just want more of his food,” I thought. So I got up “What’s wrong, Wingnut?” He started off towards the kitchen with his playful prancing, murring and chirping all the way.
As we walk into the kitchen, he looks down at a collar on the floor. For a split second, my heart thumps in my chest before I realize it’s not Binky’s rainbow. He looks up at me and back to the collar. I get a little closer (damn old eyes) and see the sleeping cat on the tag. Wingnut looks back up at me and then back down at his collar.
I get down on a knee, pick it up and place it around his neck with no complaints, no squirming. I can feel just a hint of “Thanks!” rolling off him.