There is a slightly aloof, not-quite-there manner that defines feline behavior. Cats may be wonderful companions, but they always exist in a world of their own, somehow unknowable. They may share this world with you, but they are always a step removed.
Except for Delmar.
Whatever Del feels is always right there on the surface, and whether it's utter adoration or inexplicable rage--he has no middle ground--you will damn sure know about it.
He will sit on your lap and smoosh his face into your chest, his half-wheezed purr so intense his whole body vibrates, and one of his gangly legs may slither around your wrist, his paw caressing you, drawing your hand to him, making sure you will pet him even as he hugs you, his devotion so overpowering it almost terrifies.
Or he'll hop on your lap with his half-tail twitching, a growl already forming somewhere in his chest, and that same paw that lovingly stroked your hand will slap down on your wrist, a solitary claw sinking deeper and deeper until blood bubbles to the surface, and his fiery eyes will burn into you with a terrible anger.
Your instinct at this point would be to throw this wretched beast to the ground, but if instead you take your other hand--the one that isn't streaked with blood--and gently rub Del between his ears, those terrifying eyes will gradually close and something resembling bliss will pass across his sharply-angled face. His claw may or may not leave your hand, which has likely gone numb by now anyway, but one of his other paws may reach up to stroke your face.
And maybe sink a claw in there, too, but more gently, and compared to the pain in your hand, it's nothing. Maybe it will bleed as well, but that's part of the price you paid when you let him into your heart. He is in your heart, after all, because no matter what, you know how much he loves you, and if you didn't love him, who else ever would?
