Is feline earnestness not the kind of love we desire?

On Easter morning, weeks after my mother lost Milo, a tiny, boneless-looking blonde kitten with tired eyes situated itself on our doorstep. He mewed like a newborn and rolled around in the pinestraw when we peaked out at him.
“Tricky, tricky,” my sister cooed.
“Don’t feed him,” my mother advised and poured a heap of dry cat food in a bowl for the indoor cats.
“He’s just a little ball of cotton,” my father purred. He uses this sound for the smallest animals and humans.
My sister screamed, “Cotton!” and folded her hands together as if she already loved the kitten and adored the way it moved around on the pavement.
We are cat people. Our family believes when we die, we will meet all of our old pets again in heaven and they will recognize us and rub their soft bodies on our legs and they may even speak to us. They may say, “Here you are! You look young!” or they may not speak at all. They may just love us silently.