Happy birthday my feline fellow. (minus the snip snip of course.)
You're 8 years old today, or 48, and you can still tackle M ferociously after chasing him through the house. You love to have conversations with me (are they conversations or polite ultimatums?). You're a constant companion, sitting on the chair with me in my office as I read manuscripts or write something that no one will publish. Take for instance the below picture when I had just finished using you as a head rest. Now, that's friendship.
Here's to the manx breeder in Cleveland, our move from OH to NE, and our move from NE to NE (a distance of 3 miles). And to the little circular brown spheres you leave on the bed sheets because manx are predisposed to not getting it all off the back end (no tail, you see, to wiggle things loose). V, you're Z and S rolled into one--and that's high praise.