By and large, Simba and I are in agreement about the important things in life. We like to eat dinner, perhaps play a game involving me throwing a powerade bottle top for him to chase and retrieve, and then curl up together for a cuddle and a snooze. He's purred me through many a long, dark night of the soul. If I'm in bed, it's a given that he will be snuggled on my lap or alongside me. He's here every night. He's here now. And being an exceedingly decent sort of cat, he doesn't mind if I spend hours on my iPad or reading a book, pausing only to mumble, "Shove up, Sim" and move him into another spot on the bed. He bears the indignity, and so many others, with grace and good humour. He is a paragon of good behaviour. However, he's still a cat, and like all cats, he has limits. I was reminded of one last night, while trying to remove both cats from the living room, as Tiny was in a dangerously mischievous "scratch all the sofas because I can" kind of mood. Simba wasn't quite ready to leave, and hid inside his new cube. Without thinking, and because I was tired, irritable and frankly fed up of dealing with roguish feline antics, I reached inside the cube without looking, aiming to extract the recalcitrant grey cat. The response was instantaneous and entirely in keeping with his character. I received two decisive taps on the back of my hand from a velvet-soft paw. No claws were out. He knew he didn't need to use them with me, those two taps would be enough to get his point across. It was almost as if he'd spoken, in the lugubrious, slightly posh voice I imagine him having, drawling, "I say, old girl, give over, would you? It's not very sporting of you to try to hound a chap out of his lair. I'll come out when I'm ready, thank you. Be an angel and fetch the Dreamies, would you?" He emerged by himself after two minutes or so, with tremendous dignity and my abject apologies, which he received graciously. For a moment there, I imagined that I was in charge. How wrong, how very wrong I was.