George
A little after eleven each evening – like clockwork – one of the three brothers arrives in the house, circles a spot on the sofa in the lounge, and settles down somewhere near us for the night.
He is the survivor of horrific injuries when he was young and foolish, and presumed teenagers driving cars might slow down. The insurance company cashed all his chips in one one operation, rebuilding his pelvis and hips, and giving him a second chance.
His character changed overnight. From the wayward one, he became the lap cat, the friend, the obstacle in the kitchen, and the weight on the bed.
He is also our youngest daughter's cat. For that reason alone, he has received more love – whether he liked it or not – than any of the other cats.
His name is George.