Wednesday night. Heater.

Husband to me: "Have you ever noticed there are no cats?"

Back from a day's work in Hobart, his comment found its way through my glass of red wine and straight over the top of the Chinese takeaway and through the overwhelming exhaustion familiar to anyone whose recently experienced the Midland Highway-to-hell road works.

"No cats."

Me: "No cats where?"

We were "sort of" watching Rosehaven , a fresh, little ABC/Screen Tasmania comedy set in Geeveston. The lead characters went to the home of a local hoarder.

Of course. Cats. Hoarder. Cats.

"Why don't they ever use cats?" he said.

Judging by his masculine, couch slouching posture he was experiencing a meaning of life moment – a cat epiphany.

We have cats. Marvin, a British Rex, known fondly as the international man of mystery who's also sometimes known as the Godfather or Malvern (Star).

Marvin has LuLu, a naughty slut of a cat who lolls about, eats his food, sleeps on his rug and licks his ears and back - almost on demand.

I believe LuLu could be, might be, kind of like, a much younger, four-legged version of me.

"I suppose they can't get cats to do `things’," husband announced.

Self to self: ``Cats don’t do things. Cats aren’t meant to do things. Dogs are life’s doers, cats are life’s watchers – cats are writers, dogs are footy players. Cats dig holes before they poo and take aim. Dogs don’t.’’

The red wine kicked in. After two generations of cats and 25 years together he still didn't get that cats don't do anything. Had he not noticed their lack of activity?

Another sip of red wine and I imagined casting cats for TV?

Fetch. Play dead. Run along a beach? Not Marvin and LuLu

Occasionally they fool around like a pair of teenagers. We hear them body slam each other upstairs and very occasionally Marvin sits on my husband's shoulder and licks husband's ears. Yep, cat love.

Of course, there was a time when I could sit on my husband’s shoulders and …

The cats well, they drink anything - toilet water, shower water and occasionally cold tea from a cup left too long bedside.

I like my tea hot and my water from a glass.

LuLu eats fast. Marvin takes 10 minutes to find his bowl, another five minutes to find his mouth and then stops for a long, slow blink, opens his eyes one at a time to find his food has mysteriously gone (into LuLu).

I too eat fast, but cross my heart, I never steal his food.

Born confused, Marvin looks perpetually confused; or, is probably staggering to make sense of LuLu?

I prefer to think Marvin is like the Chinese philosopher and educator Confucius. Tolerant. Wise. Kind. Smart.

When LuLu is getting too much for Marvin, my husband locks her in the `naughty girls’ room’ – our son’s old bedroom.

(Crap. I could be next?)

One night, after a rowdy teenage party, Marvin woke with a white dot in the centre of his forehead.

For a while I thought he had been bleached. But no. The white dot remained.  

Who knows what that poor cat saw?

And, if they asked, Marvin would probably reject any offer of TV, fame and fortune. He's not that kind of guy.

Which is exactly why I love my husband.