A tyrant lives at our house. Our daughter found a gray, two pound ball of fluff inside a coke machine a year ago and brought him home. After spending a day or so assessing his situation, he asserted full authority over the entire household. We named him All That Jazz (for some unexplainable reason) and promptly shortened it to Jazz.
Jazz appropriates my favorite chair at will and turns into a handful of cooked spaghetti when I try to remove him. Another resting place is the laundry basket, atop freshly laundered and folded clothes.
His hobbies include chasing the long cord my husband uses to connect his laptop to the phone. Cat toys bore him, but he has been known to rip a newspaper or homework into confetti when thwarted.
At mealtime, he wraps himself around my feet in a disgusting fawning manner, even though he knows the rule is no feeding in the kitchen or dining room. He prefers pasta to cat food, but his all time favorite food is tuna.
Each night he honors one of us by sleeping on the chosen one's bed. Once settled, you move him at your own risk. He appears benign enough as you gently slide him over so you can slip under the covers. Don't be fooled by the fact that he doesn't move an eyelid, or stiffen his tail. In half an hour or so, just as you are nestling into a sound sleep, he exacts revenge by nipping a toe.
I once scolded him sternly: "I'm the mistress, you're the pet." He stared at me with unblinking green eyes for a few moments, swishing his tail all the while. Then he yawned and turned his back on me. I am almost sure I heard "Dream on Lady" as he stalked off.