Ducati is 8 years old. He loves catnip, biting the tops of our feet, wet cat food, staring at Harlow when she uses the cat box and slapping Carson on the ass.
In September of 2004, his eye was removed because a freckle had, over a couple of years, developed into cancer. Though it was a shock at first, I can’t even remember what it was like when he had both his eyes. He has adjusted very well and has no lasting symptoms. He can still see quite well, and will catch toys and bugs or jump on the counter even though he knows better with the utmost precision.
He does not like costumes.
Ducati is sweet and, though he does not like to be scooped, he does like it very much if you scratch his booty. He likes his face rubbed, too, but it makes him sneeze.
He prefers that you not take a shower or bath. He does not understand why you would do something so utterly horrible to yourself on a daily basis.
His hobbies include: running down the hallway at top speed, making funny noises – especially late at night when everyone is asleep, pulling all his toys out of the toy basket and working on his rap career.
When I told him I was writing about him on the Internet, he asked me close with this request:
Send me much chicken