I took these pictures because I was charmed by the way he wrapped his tail around the blind cord. Even in the last picture, as he falls asleep, he clings to the cord like a security blanket.

It reminded me of a morning last summer when I heard a light clicking sound. Odin was on the sill, staring menacingly at the birds in the tree outside the window. His tail swished back and forth in full predator mode while he subtly shifted his weight from one haunch to the other as if readying himself to charge through the window at the offending birds. Each time his tail swung to the right, it hit the blind cords and knocked the plastic ends against the wall. The great hunter was too intent upon his prey to notice.

Or so I thought. The next morning, he once again leapt in the back window to watch the early birds. Once again his tail swished back and forth with leopard-like seriousness. And once again his entire focus seemed to be on the birds. But this time the swishing was silent. The cord hung untouched several inches to the right. Then, with his eyes still transfixed on the outside world, Odin's tail began to swing harder--particularly on the arc to the right. The pendulum became lopsided as he threw his hips more and more to the one side and actually reached and groped with his tail, straining without looking to hit the cord. He'd never acknowledge it, but it was clearly an intentional act.

That's what's so great about having a tail--it appears to act independently of the rest of oneself. Because he has a tail, Odin can maintain his aloofness toward visitors while his tail secretly caresses them, wrapping seductively around their legs, lingering until the last possible moment as his body walks on by. Or he can look lovingly into my eyes while his tail nonchalantly dips its end in my cereal bowl, and then appear as surprised as I when it flings a spray of milk across the room.

Odin's tail may be quite dexterous, even slightly prehensile, but it's not particularly impressive size-wise. Like most everything about him, it's small and slender. Unlike Nittany's magnificent tail. Nittany is even smaller than Odin--a petite, dainty, yet imperious cat, with a svelte little body and a delicate head. Except for her tail. Nittany has the most magnificent tail in both length and circumference. The girth at its base is practically the same as her torso. Odin can only dream of such a piece of tail.

What Odin lacks in tail, he does not make up for in head. Some people might see small-headedness as a sign of inferior intellect. People like Sushi's friend who has questioned Ziggy's head size. (The friend's cat, of course, has a huge head.) But Ziggy is very smart--probably smarter than that big-headed cat--so there's obviously no connection. (Ziggy's head is indeed small, although thanks to foreshortening, it does seem unnaturally large in this picture.)

So I'm not worried, but Odin's tiny head has been a matter of great concern for DinDin. The first time he met Odin, DinDin asked, "Isn't his head too small for his body?" I like to think of Odin as delicate and fine-boned. DinDin calls him Pinhead.

I don't mind, though. As someone who's always had to buy men's hats, it works for me. If you can't live vicariously through your cats, what's the point? It's nice to know Odin can wear any lady's hat he wants to.

And don't think he doesn't want to (see Odin, Queen of the Desert).