Sun’s Out, Sphynx Out

If the sun is shining, you can bet Crinkle and Wrinkle are busy perfecting their art of solar worship. As soon as spring peeks around the corner, they become absolute sun junkies. Whether it’s on the balcony on a delightfully scratchy towel (no idea why that’s their fave) or sprawled dramatically in a patch of sunlight indoors, my two naked ladies are all about catching those rays.

From early afternoon to sundown, my house turns into a feline tanning salon. Crinkle’s routine is as theatrical as ever. The moment I crack the balcony door, she launches outside like a deer offended by months of winter exile—complete with an excited chirp that sounds suspiciously like smug joy. Wrinkle is more cautious. She perches next to the door, sniffs the air like a wine connoisseur, and silently judges whether the temperature and wind levels meet her highly specific standards. A breeze? Nope, not worth it.

Back when they were younger, I used to worry about sunburn. I tried every “pet-safe” sunscreen known to mankind. The result? Itchy, rashy Sphynx skin and two very unimpressed cats. I gave up, especially once I noticed that they instinctively seek shade during the hottest hours. Crinkle has developed a whole constellation of freckles—her “sun kisses”—which the vet assures me are harmless. Honestly, they just add to her freckly little charm.

Their sunbathing habits, though, remain truly puzzling. Despite roasting themselves in the heat, they often burrow under blankets while in direct sunlight. It’s like they’re trying to simulate a desert cave sauna. Wrinkle’s favorite spot? My chest. And no, it’s not cute. She climbs up like a smug little sun-seeking missile and flops on top of me, turning me into a human solar panel.

The result? One sweaty cat, one sweaty human, and a moment that is deeply uncomfortable and yet—somehow—completely heartwarming. I mean, sure, I can’t breathe. Sure, I feel like I’m being slow-roasted. But do I love it? Yes. Every ridiculous, sticky second of it.

They may be weird, demanding, and just a touch feral when denied balcony time—but they’re my weirdos. And in their own overheated, slightly smelly way, they’re perfect.