Toeffe has been sleeping on me lately. Usually, he sleeps on Ken. I don't mind; he's like a warm, heavy, furry heating pad, and he doesn't complain that much when I turn over and dump him off of me. Toeffe's sense of entitlement is of such astonishing breadth and depth that it often dupes me into going along with him. Of course we love him, of course we have nothing better to do than pet and cuddle him, of course I want to feed him now. His perfect confidence and trust is irritatingly endearing, as is the fact that it took him a week or two to warm up to us when we first got him. He purrs in response to almost everything -- he'll purr because you're looking at him. The only thing I dislike about him is that he abuses Moly almost unceasingly. And that, for me, is a deal-breaker. And so, for the next fifteen years, for the rest of Moly's life, I will resent him, even as I put turkey and cheese Friskies on the shopping list because it's his favorite.