I understand my cats. I watch them leave in the small hours.I hear them leap on the gate and scratch the shingles of the roof.I do not complain when they fail to greet my arrivalor to watch my departure, for they come when I call.My cats’ names are Thunder, Song, and Peraclete, LL.D.Thunder has long gray fur, pointed ears, and yellow eyes;he is not a symptom of suppressed longing for worldly power.Song is a calico, moves without effort, and leaps like the wind;she is not merely a symbol of grace, but draws all hearts to hers.Peraclete is a tiger, a flame that lights up any shadow.To be near him is to realize that to love is not to be love’s slave.I understand my cats, and they love me as if they were my own,but I know they don’t really need me—not to feed them,not to comb out their fleas, not to warm the house on a wet night.They do as I please, but I know exactly what to please.