Meow, meow, meow, meow.

12 years ago, my cats were my babies. Smudge the pudge, who always sat outside of your reach and meowed with indignation that you couldn't reach her to rub her butt. Dakota, the wonder cat, with mad dog-like skills including the ability to jump nearly six feet straight up and INto a paper grocery bag to retrieve the cap from a beer bottle. Carried around in the front pocket of my overalls, my 20 year old self lavished every ounce of pre-motherhood love upon them.

Sadly for the felines, life could not remain so exquisitely perfect. Nay, one day their devoted parents brought The Boy. The cats sniffed him suspiciously, but The Boy never seemed interested beyond the occasional tail pull. The attention available for them was lessened dramatically, to which they combatted by discovering the joy of peeing on folded laundry, and life went on.

Enter Boy #2. This child was met with much suspicion, but our pets had each other and still made themselves available for the occasional reminder that, Oh YEAH! We have PETS! More tail pulling added to the cat hunting game (which, btw, cats don't really like...). They added the thrilling habit of chewing on anything plastic, which led to their more consistent habit of puking in random spots. My love for them had dramatically decreased as I had 2 other short people that had their own bodily fluids to clean up. The random urine and plasticy puke did not endear me back to them...

Which brings us to Our Little Princess. When Princess was born, the cats barely gave her a glance up from gnawing on the plastic wrapping from the newspaper. Things carried on their merry way with Smudge and Dakota appearing once or twice a day to make their presence known and sleeping in the windowsill for the remainder. They are, after all, 12 years old by now.

But something has changed.

My daughter, Our Little Princess, has realized that Hey! WE have pets, too!! She has taken it upon herself to care for our animals in the only ways her 2 year old self knows how...
He tolerated the brushing on the staircase, one of his refuges from the hustle and bustle of our house.
Hmmm. His ears are a bit pulled back, but he never tried to get away!
Again! He keeps coming back for more! She is never intentionally rough, though we do hear the occasional Mrrwwwoooowwwww from the other room, to which we immediately shout "Put the cat down, Corinne!!"

It only took 10 years and 3 kids, but my cats (well, Dakota at least) finally have someone to love on them again.

Here's my question, though: should I stop counting down the years until I no longer have to smell every piece of clothing that has been on the floor, now that my daughter is infatuated with them? It seems a bit wrong, now....