One of my hosts here in Santa Fe is Tika, a cat who talks almost constantly. You can never get a word in when Tika’s around. She spends most of her time trying to direct the humans in the room to her food dish, because it is never full enough. She spends the rest of her time on the windowsills, on laps, behind the Christmas tree. I’m not used to living with cats, just Thomas. After everyone goes to bed, Tika stands by her food bowl and lengthens her vocalizations into a passable howl, an expression of sorrow that the humans have retired once again without filling her bowl.