I don't know if there are any Siamese cats in Jane Austen's novels, but there should be. I am a self-contained woman of manners. I believe that life should be straightforward, uncomplicated, simple. I thought I had it all down - perfectly clear, no doubts - until my person died. I do understand that people die - and cats, too - but it has been unsettling to discover that I no longer have a parlor in which to roam and sleep. I can't construct and complete my philosophy, maybe even a theology, without at least one human to support my intellect.

I see and feel that people love me. They pet my neck and scratch my chin, and I purr and purr to let them know I love them back. I'll nuzzle your hand and rub your arm. Unlike a lot of my Siamese colleagues I really do enjoy people. I think you're interesting. There might be such a thing as too much love, but I've not seen it. I guess if a person slobbered like a silly dog and got my quite perfect Siamese hairstyle all wet, I wouldn't be too happy about it. But I can tell you wouldn't do that.

I'm a homebody. That's a homebody, not a homey. I live indoors, always have, always will. A good Victorian footstool, maybe an ottoman, near a window - that's my idea of the place to curl up, one eye open, one closed, paw across nose. A couple of serene hours in that pose, and I will finish my treatise on the meaning of it all. Become my person, my people, and I'll explain it to you. Not all at once, you understand. It's complicated - I'm not, but my ideas are. Only $100 for real feline love, beauty, and serenity. That is what you're looking for. I know.