Brooks

I'm Brooks. Look into my eyes. You want to feed me and pet me and take care of me, don't you? You believe me when I tell you that my Mommy never feeds me, don't you? Of course you do.

I understand well the advantages of my having these big blue eyes. And I use them every chance I get, too. Bob, my Dad, falls for it every time when I look at him at the dinner table. He drops bits of meat down to me, then says, "Oh, look what a good kitty she is, she's cleaning up the piece of meat I accidentally dropped." Accident? Of course not. It was really my will.

Bob thinks he has me trained because I come to him when he lays down on the couch and calls, "Brooks." Little does he realize that it is I who have trained him to call me whenever he makes a lap for me to snuggle in.

Sherry, my Mom, seems somewhat less susceptible to my methods. However, they worked on her when it was most important--when she and Bob came to the Pound to pick out a companion for their first kitty. I decided these people were just the ones I needed to get me out of that place, so I turned on the charm. I pretended that I liked to be cuddled, and that I would be friendly with other kitties. That lasted for a couple of weeks, until I determined I was properly entrenched in their household. Then I went and bopped Nike in the nose. It doesn't matter that she outweighed me 10 pounds to my 6. First kitty, my paw! I'm number one around this house! And have been for 17 years now!