Sometimes I think I have a Dr Dolittle-esque rapport with my animals. The Grey Mare communicates through body language and subtle nuances; my two cats are more vocal. I chat away to them all and am convinced they understand every word I say.
It would be fair to say that the cats understand me better than I sometimes understand them. Their obsession with the bathroom sink is a key area of confusion. Even if I have just filled their water dish, they will turn their back on it in preference for water straight out of the tap. They are such connoisseurs of what they drink, I reckon they’d be feline versions of Jilly Goolden if they could work the corkscrew.
However, their interest in the sink goes beyond drinking out of the tap. Wombat, my black and white man cat, is especially keen. If no water is forthcoming, he will settle into the sink and curl up in utter bliss. He has the choice of armchairs, a sofa and my bed as snooze spots (all of which he does utilise), but time and time again, he returns to the sink.
I think being contrary is a key component of being a cat.