Weirdo

I have a cat who likes to pee in my bathroom sink.

I mentioned that a few years ago, shortly after we adopted Camille, our grey tabby. She doesn't do it as often as she used to and only seems to do it when we're in the bathroom, possibly because she knows we'll turn on the tap after she's done to rinse out the sink.

Cece likes our bathroom sink, too. But not to use as a toilet.

Our black, ginger, and white cat is the most vocal cat we've ever had. She is constantly getting our attention with little mews, calling to us, chatting away as though we're in a conversation. Sometimes, she voices her distain, annoyed that we don't seem to understand what she's telling us.

But one thing she's clear about in communication is when she wants into the bedroom, when she wants us to follow her into our ensuite bathroom, where she'll lead us to the sink.

She wants a drink.

It doesn't matter that we keep a glass dish, filled with water several times a day. "No," she mews, "that's for the other cats. I like my water fresher than that." And with those meows, she'll step into the sink and stare at us.

She wants us to turn on the faucet. Just a small trickle.

She'll take a paw and bat at the falling water, as though she were testing that the water was at the right temperature. She'll then turn her head sideways, bite at the stream, and then start licking it.

We're to remain, to watch the spectacle, to turn off the water when she informs us, in cheery mews, that she's done.

Sometimes, Cece's brother, Finn, and Camille will join her on the counter, to watch her in awe. Camille has even tried to copy Cece, but when her face gets wet, she backs away as if to say, "No thanks, I'll just drink from the dish."

There was a time when I walked past the bathroom, moving from the bedroom to my at-home office, and heard Cece's call. At first, I didn't see her, but then I spied the tips of her ears protruding from the sink. And that's where I found her, curled up like she was in one of the cat beds.

A purry noise came from her and a paw batted at the end of the faucet.

"I can't turn it on until you get up," I told her, "you're going to get wet."

More mews, as if to say, "Don't question me, human. I want water and I want it now."

"Okay," I said, and slowly turned the tap. A tiny trickle of water fell, yet she didn't move out of its way. Instead, she moved her head under the stream, soaking her head. "That's enough of that," I said, turning off the tap. "You're going to get soaked and then you're going to track water all over the place."

Cece was not happy.

We find her often curled up in the sink, napping. It's as though she doesn't want to miss an opportunity for us to be in the bathroom, for when we could possibly turn the water on for her. To drink. To bathe.

Yup, she's a weirdo. But she's our weirdo.