Now that I have a legitimate reason to take photos of Chicken, I’ve been doing it all the time. Following him around, barring anyone from disrupting me while I’m trying to catch Chicken doing something funny, making strange noises to try and get his attention. To put it mildly, he is not a cooperative cat: my best photos are of him sleeping.
As a cat who likes to sunbathe, he is loving the heat. The wooden planks on the terrace sometimes get too hot to walk on in bare feet, but Chicken will lounge there, baking. You can rub his belly and he stretches out, looking for more heat pockets, I suppose. When he casually saunters back in, it’s a lovely feeling to dig your fingers through his fur, all warmed up. You can’t really aggressively snuggle him or squeeze him, like you can with a dog like Super, which I resist with much difficulty. He’s one of those cats that meow in disgruntled protest at the lightest pressure, you have to stroke him like he’s a fragile shell of a cat. And yet I feel so tremendously honoured when I get the chance to do so.