The cat with the curl

Finally, someone on the outside can confirm that I'm not just randomly hating on my cat. My sister is visiting and she spent the night on the futon in the living room. Due to the layout of our apartment, I could either subject us all to the unwanted and excessive attentions of Carlo, or I could close my bedroom door, locking both cats out. Guess what I did? And guess who stumbled into the kitchen all bleary-eyed this morning and groused, "I hate Carlo"? Apparently, she woke up in the middle of the night without much pillow under head and wearing him as a pair of earmuffs. Yes, he wrapped himself around her head. He then proceeded to sprawl across her face, attempt to eat everything on the coffee table (including her glasses, cough drops, and cell phone), and played a 30-minute game of on-the-bed/off-the-bed. Of course, he later jumped into my arms as I was lazing in bed and proceeded to be the sweetest, most loving cat there ever was. He's like the little girl with curl in the middle of her forehead: when he's good, he's very, very good; when he's bad, he's horrid.