The lovable one. Notice the paws.

I often tell people that Sue and I have 1½ cats. Two black cats regularly eat the Purina Cat Chow that I put out, so I guess that we own them. Although they both came from the same litter six years ago, they are quite easy to tell apart. One of them, Giacomo, is a good deal larger than his brother and has much longer hair. He is very affectionate, loves people, and cannot get enough petting. Giacomo also has huge double-paws on his front feet and a very shaggy tail that is nothing like his brother’s rat-like appendage. Franklin, on the other hand, is very wary of people. He sometimes lets Sue pet him, but he almost always gives me a wide berth.

The other cat.

The exceptions to this pattern fascinate me. Franklin will sometimes tolerate me petting him if Giacomo is between us. This morning, for example, I was sitting on the glider outside petting Giacomo. Franklin came up to us and rubbed up against his brother. He would occasionally allow me to reach over Giacomo and rub his back. He did not run away until I got up.

The other exception almost defies credulity. The latest example occurred on Friday morning. I took some trash out to the rolling bin and, as usual, saw both cats sitting near the door. When I opened the door, they both scampered away. Nothing unusual there. However, when I went back in to shave I could hear Franklin’s unmistakable whine coming from the other side of the bathroom window. This was definitely unusual; beneath the window is the cat’s door, which leads to the basement.

A minute or two later I heard a much louder whining coming from the hallway. Evidently Franklin had come inside to eat his breakfast. Here is the thing: I knew precisely why he was announcing his presence in such a conspicuous manner. It had been exactly thirty days since Sue had administered his last dose of Frontline flea medicine to him. In fact, I expected and predicted that something like this would happen — and soon. The flea drops are only effective for thirty days.

I finished shaving and then crept into the room in which we feed the cats. I slipped in and trapped — but only by inches — Franklin inside by rapidly closing the door. Then I had to endure the usual ten-minute ritual in which he cried loudly as if I were torturing him as he searched for an exit from the room. Finally, he jumped up on the bed and let me pet him as if nothing had happened. I gave him his dose and let him go.

Some version of this theatrical exercise is repeated every month during flea season. Franklin stays away for twenty-nine days, and then he “accidentally” makes himself available for the treatment on the day that he needs it. He has never missed a treatment when he is due for it, and he is almost never within reach otherwise. I cannot explain it.

All cats are eccentric, but Franklin is just weird.