When he’s hungry, he sits by his bowl waiting for me to walk by. When I do, he sings a quick melody of meows to get my attention, glancing at his bowl and back at me throughout the entire tune.
When he’s thirsty for fresh water, he crouches down by his bowl, staring at it while singing slightly lower, almost like a whisper.
When he wants to soak up some sun in the bedroom window, he smacks the blinds gently with his paw, glancing over his shoulder at me with an inquisitive sounding meow.
From the sill, he stares at the birds and the squirrels, his tail thumping while he sings the food bowl song in a quicker tempo, with a sort of meloncholy excitement and a longing to pounce.
In the five years I’ve lived with Bodhi, he’s used an impressive variety of meows, yodels, whistles, and chirps—combined with an equally complex array of body gestures—to express all of his needs and desires. We’ve had some brilliant conversations so far.