She can’t hear anything, but she can sure as hell see.
Her name is Micol, she’s ten years old (give or take a kitty year), and she’s deaf. She’s also FIV positive – roughly akin to the HIV virus in humans.
For five straight days, I would stroll in to the nursery and settle down cross-legged on the floor at the north end of the room; and for five straight days, Micol would stop what she was doing and run – not walk – to my lap and lay down. She would purr a little, sometimes let me pet her, other times give that annoyed quick head turn that told you she was about to bring her claws to the party.
Even on the days sans petting, though, she didn’t want you to get up and leave either; she grumbled awkwardly but definitively when she felt you jostle underneath her. So, we would sit together. Sometimes damn near an hour. She would pop up eventually, needing only a second to stretch before bounding off to her next
victim friend, leaving me numb from my ass to my knees and wobbling to the food table for support to get fully upright.