My butt is really, really cold.

This is my closet shelf, which Tig has decided is now his.

The black cat sprays my bushes and rubs his scent on the patio, which is why Tig rubs his scent on the patio every time he goes out. (Mine! No, mine!) Here, Tig is trying to decide if they're going to be pals or not.

Not.

In a box, on the sofa, because he knows he's not allowed on the sofa proper. (Not that this stops him if I'm not paying attention.)

This is pretty much what I see about half the mornings of the year. The other half he's just outside the door, yowling for me to get up and let him out.

On top of the microwave, on his way down from the kitchen shelf. He is allowed on neither, of course.

If Tig got any cooler, he'd be able to freeze water.

In the picture window on a cloudy day, waiting for me to come inside.

This is my overstuffed leather armchair. It's part of my living room set, and has an incredibly large and comfortable ottoman, which Tig has taken over for his own purposes. But today, Tig decided it was time to read a book in my armchair. Okay. Time to lie on a book in my armchair. He gets highly offended when I throw him out of it, too.