Nineveh can meow, she just, like Bartleby, would prefer not to. I don’t know why. Nor do I know why she makes an exception every few months and produces a small, rusty sound like this for no reason that I can discern. She even begs for food in complete silence, rubbing herself against my shin or bonking her forehead against me, or simply sitting and looking fixedly at me. Kaiju, meanwhile, makes enough noise for the both of them, yowling and howling and singing and whining and skittering around the apartment in the throes of some powerful emotion, claws scrabbling against the hardwood floor. He’s about ten years old, but age seems not to have dulled his passionate nature.