Crises

I'm worried about Frank.  It's not an identity crisis; he knows who he is and answers to his name.  It's not a gender crisis although, as a neutered male, that could be confusing.  Frank appears to be having a species crisis, acting more like dog than cat.  Although there are several constantly refreshed water dishes, both indoors and out, I frequently find Frank drinking out of the toilet.  To do this, he has to get halfway into the toilet, with only his hindquarters and tail sticking out.  Bessie Anne likes Fritos.  Frank likes Fritos.  I don't think cats are supposed to like Fritos.  Frank hangs out now and again with Pearl, his sister, and they do hunt together, but his true love is Bess.  She is the one he runs to when he comes in the house, rubbing all over her, taking her face in his paws and looking into her eyes, lifting her ears to help her clean those hard-to-reach places.  Bessie gets a shoulder massage every night at bedtime (I already said I was a nut), and Frank joins me and "makes muffins" on Bess's butt.  The look on Bessie's face tells me she doesn't think this is normal behavior for a cat either.  I'm worried about Frank.

I'm having a small crisis of my own.  The blanket I've had on the bed for years and years has finally worn itself thin and ragged.  I bought a new blanket, but I'm having trouble letting go of the old "blankie."  Look, there's where Bessie chewed when she was a puppy.  Those holes are where Frank took a spell of attacking moving feet when he was just a kitten.  It seems so cold and indifferent to just throw this blanket that has warmed me on winter nights and has so much history into the garbage can.  Not left with many alternatives, I suppose I'll have to say goodbye come Trash Day Tuesday, but it won't be easy.  I haven't bonded with the new blanket yet.