Happy Birthday, Johnny Cash!

I can't believe it was nearly two years ago that he looked like this:

(He weighed two pounds when this photo was taken)

And now he looks like this!:

(I haven't weighed him recently, but my educated guess would be 12-14lbs)

Around here, we have a bit of a good-child/troublesome-child stereotype happening. Hobbes is the good child; there's no way around it. He's super quiet, rarely complains, makes this squeeky little chirping sound instead of meowing, is literally the softest cat I've ever met, purrs like a super-loud motorboat at the drop of a hat, and spends a good portion of his day trying to take care of people. Case and point:

(That's a bath. He's always trying to give everyone a bath. Us included.)

Johnny Cash is our troublesome child. He meows, loudly and often, and complains (mostly to be let out). He eats clothes. And shoelaces. He's the most likely to get frisky and accidentally claw you. Hobbes has always seemed to understand that you don't ever scratch a human's face when playing... Johnny Cash does not know this rule.

But regardless of all of that... he's also the sweetest cat I've ever had. He makes the most eye contact. When he meows at you and stares into your eyes, you can almost feel him trying to speak English. He's smarter than Hobbes. (Sorry, but it's true. And I suspect it's why he complains more.) He takes his collar off for fun and hides it around the apartment. He plays intense games of monkey-in-the-middle with us. When the Mr. is gone on overnights, he curls up on my shoulder and snoozes with his little chin resting on my arm. He's always the one still sleeping at the foot of the bed when I wake up in the morning. His purr is quiet and he reserves it for moments of true happiness, which makes it more rewarding. Maybe I just love an underdog, but I think he's pretty awesome.

Happy Birthday, little cat.