This is Oscar Wilde, the cat who thinks he's a dog.
He may also think we're married.
He has to be in the same room as me. He sits at the window waiting for me to come home. He sits on the toilet waiting for me to get out of the shower. He sleeps next to me every night (sorry non-existent BF, you've already lost out to a feline). When I'm sick, he lays on my lap. If I go on vacation, he loses weight. If I'm on the couch, he's on the couch.
Oscar was adopted in Florida from the shelter. I was there with someone else who was getting a kitten and I saw him. He did all the right cat stuff; I couldn't stop thinking about him. When I went back to see if it really was true love, he came right to me and swatted at any other cat who came near me, so of course I caved.
The honeymoon was over pretty fast. I've had cats for years and I could not figure him out. He would go from purring to biting in a nanosecond. And I mean biting, puncture wounds, blood. He disemboweled my arm on more than one occasion. No warning, no ears back, no tail swishing, no growling.
Then he would lay down by me, put his paw on my leg, look up at me purring away. Try resisting that.
For months I walked around with a squirt bottle. Finally we came to some kind of understanding, I'm not sure what happened. Now nine years later, as long as I don't touch his hind feet or his stomach, it's the perfect marriage.