Ten years ago I was walking home from a town festival. Suddenly a small, skinny kitten with long legs and a loud little voice got under my feet. I noticed him at once and crouched down. Once he was sitting on my lap, purring loudly, I simply couldn't walk away. I immediately picked up my phone: "Mum…"
We already had one cat at home, but unexpectedly a second one arrived. At first he was more my mum's cat; they slept together and he needed her attention. But then I grew up (I'm 25 now), and he switched sides and became completely mine. When I moved out of my mum's, I took Stephen with me.
He always greets me when I come home from work. He's terribly affectionate, purrs loudly when I stroke him, loves lying on my lap and enjoys people's attention. He even knows the command "come here": I just pat my hand and call him. Though that depends on his mood – he is a cat, after all.
By the way, I'm the only person Stevie will let hold him. From an ordinary street kitten he has grown into a dignified cat of royal blood. At least, that's what he thinks. He's rather spoilt, adores seafood and loves a good stretch.
