The really bad part about what a freak my cat is: he didn't start as my cat. Two years ago, one of my roommates decided he wanted a kitten. So he took two from the neighbor, claiming the little girl for his own. The other roommate took the little boy, and named him Mackey, after Vic Mackey on the Shield.
Well, Mackey was dominated by my tomcat at the time, and he was always kind of shy and sweet, and just a little freaky. Then my tom was gone, and his sister was gone, and he became the only cat. My fiance has made it his goal to turn Mackey into a real cat.
Instead of a real cat, Mackey is a freak. And mine.
He snuggles his face under flesh; arms, boobs, armpits, anything that can cover his head. And he loves doing it with a wet cold nose.
He must snuggle with my fiance and I, and must be touching us both at the same time when he does. Last night, he laid along the curve of my spine, bracing himself against my old man, while burrowing his head into my old man's head. It was cute.
Mackey wants to try everything I'm eating. That's not that the unusual part. Unusual is that he likes most of what I have. Including yogurt, ice cream, whip cream, and peanut butter. I just found that one out last night; if it hadn't been clinging so much to the roof of his mouth, he'd have eaten a ton of it.
He creates kitty landmines. No, not hairballs on the floor. He's good about taking that outside, thankfully. What I mean is that he lays on his back, legs all sprawled, waiting for someone to rub his tummy. Once you rub his tummy, he wraps his arms around you, and kicks and chews and attacks. A kitty landmine. He also gets wound up, and attacks our suede-covered throw pillow. None of the others, just the suede one.
Mackey may not be a "real" cat, but he's certainly an awesome cat. A weird cat. And I love him.