Uncle should have been a dog. He basically is a dog already. He cuddles and whines and drools. He smells. He’s dirt dust and dead leaves caught in fur. The smell is possibly sex hormones. There might be no cat showers less often.

He demands constant petting. He fixes himself in place digging his claws into your slacks. He has no concept of flesh so he might also wend deeper. You stroke his head and he accepts it with eyes closed in meditation and oh here’s another drip of drool on you. If you stop he looks up and into your eyes. Uncle’s eyes are big green bulbs. I’m told we’re alike this way.

He’s only swayed if he spies movement in the kitchen. Then he proceeds to sit before the fridge and whine at it. His is a two-pronged operation.

Uncle keeps getting beat up. He was born in the streets but raised in flats. He comes in bloodied; fur missing bits. We hold him down to apply alcohol and iodine and then he sleeps in a pretzel shape forever. Uncle is big like a koala. He has a light snore and if it’s quiet you can hear him purr from across the living room.