Ok, he's not from Russia, per se. He has a Russian name—Arais—although he responds better to moya, which means something like "my love". And he's been trying to ingratiate himself with me to, indeed, become my love.
It's endearing, really, but I don't need another cat. A weird, Russian one, nonetheless.
Robbie reluctantly owns Arais, and they've both lived with me for nearly a year. In that time, Reese (his Americanized name) has warmed up to me. (He must have forgiven me for inking on his alabaster fur with Sharpies when he just lived with Robbie). He'd sleep on my bed during the day and recently started joining the rest of the crew at night.
Now that I've returned after being gone for a week, he is all about me, including plopping his heavy self on my chest and trying to stick his butt in my face. Very sweet and all.
Reese has always been kind of...odd. More of a loner, prone to humping pillows, he used to randomly claw Leslie as if it was his sport of choice. And now, now he wants to be mine. Or at least benefit from the affection I bequeath upon my cats. Perhaps he longs for me to insert his name into the songs I sing to my cats or maybe he wishes to be one of my parents' grandkitties, too.
I'm sure Robbie wouldn't mind if I adopted Arais, but, fellas, I want to make it to thirty at least with only two cats to my name.