Every morning, we listen to the news and, when it’s over, my mother pulls my ears a couple of times, puts on her pink slippers and her red bathrobe and proceeds to the kitchen where she boils water for tea and prepares my breakfast. Eventually, I head toward my bowl where I’m often disappointed, but she tells me I have to eat to keep up my enormous bulk.

My name is Pea–short for Sweet Pea or maybe Green Pea. I’m gray with white trim, a big white arrow on my nose, fine white lines under my eyes, a big white bib, and a light brown pouf on my belly, most prominent when I do one of my celebrated rolls. My mother always asks whether the poof is a poof or a puff, but I have no idea.

At night, I usually sleep peacefully by her side, but often I run around her head purring and demanding head rubs, ear pulls, and neck circles—first on one side and then on the other. I love my mother but why does she have to sleep when she can rub my head instead? I’m only a cat, so the irony has never occurred to me that it’s okay for me to interrupt her sleep, but when I’m fast asleep and she pets me, boy! do I give her an evil look! It’s true, though, that when I’m deep asleep on our bed in a muddle of sheets and blankets, I’m “insufferably cute,” especially if I rest my head on the edge of her pillow.

Even if I’m in a deep sleep, if I hear my mother’s voice on the phone, I jump up and sit purring like crazy beside her on the back of the couch. I LOVE phone conversations!

Because I’m rather old, my mother often calls me missus, but she also calls me a kitten. “When you’ve got a good kitten,” she says, “you’ve got it all.” And she’s written quite a few songs for me; “Pea and a Po and a Po and a Pea” tops them all.

The best part of my day is the afternoon scrub. When I see the comb in my mother’s hand, I flop down on the living room floor and she brushes me, first one way and then the other, finishing

with my tail—that’s when I run. After my scrub, I always look forward to playing with a rope. My favorite is one my mother found in a puddle on the Boston Common, recognizing immediately that I would love it.

When she calls “C’mere” or “C’mon, Pea” I c’mon. I also know “Sit Down,” and on occasion, “Bad Cat.” That’s when I jump up on a table or a shelf. Lately, if I do jump up somewhere I’m not supposed to go, Itemper my mother’s anger by running away but then coming back to her as though to say, “I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again.”

I’m hardly the kind of cat who runs out when the door is open. Says mymother: “Why would a kitten want to go out when she has everything she could possibly need or want inside?” She’s got that right!