Cats are finicky. This is not a myth. They have their idiosyncrasies, the likes of which make the stereotypical hermit or village eccentric seem like the most well-adjusted individual. Most feline quirks are harmless. Take, for instance, Josie and her water.
In the old house, there were five bowls, of various sizes and material, around the building into which I poured water for the cats to drink. In the new apartment, there are three: two heavy glass bowls - one by the food and one in the library - and a small ceramic vessel in the bathroom. Periodically, my Chubs will sate her thirst in the library. But when she sees me go into the bathroom, she follows, and makes it clear that she wants water.
Josie is not satisfied with the water in the bowl. It must be fresh each time. She will rub against me, curl her tail about my leg and, as a last resort, cry out in her creaky old lady voice. If I have not recharged the water for some time, I will do so, and the Great White will enjoy the spring-like effluent from the tap above the basin. I don’t want to waste water that was poured into the bowl but an hour previously, however. Sometimes, if I am newly returned from work, I will have already filled the bowl when Josie trots in to the bathroom after me, calling for fresh water. I don’t intend to throw out perfectly good water for her fastidity. I pick up the bowl and immediately place it on the floor again.
This seems to satisfy my Chubs. Either she is unaware that it is the same water, or the action fills her need to have me wait upon her, to do my duty and provide her with sustenance.
This is a new characteristic Josie has exhibited since our arrival in the apartment. She is not really demanding, but when she wants something - not surprisingly, her needs tend to involve food or water - she will let it be known. It is, as she is well aware, part of my job as human to make water available to her.
I am, one may say, a bhisti for my beasty.