I have always loved cats, and since I bought my house twenty-very-odd years ago, I have always had at least one. Usually more than one, honestly, but at least one.
My last Writer’s Cat, Kimball O’Hara, passed on about two and a half years ago, right before my mom died. Since then, my life has been a bit on the chaotic side, and that chaos culminated in my fostering my brother’s dog. It was only supposed to be for a few weeks, but ended up being more like a year.
But then two months ago a friend sent me this picture of a kitten that needed adoption.
Tell me – could YOU resist that face?
A voice inside my head said “Her name is Pandora. Pandora Eloise.”
In the two months I’ve had here, she’s terrorized the dog (who has since gone back to my brother, with great relief, no doubt), broke a half-dozen fairy statues I had on top of my bookcase, pulled down my bedroom curtains, delivered fleas to the house and to the dog, and has left scars all over my arms. (There was a Facebook meme going around that fits her perfectly: God: Let’s make a kitten, all soft and fluffy. Angel: Oh, what a good idea! God: And then put razor blades on the end of her paws. Angel: Umm…)
I adore her. She’s Pandorable.
Here is her four-month picture.
She’s over five pounds now, and I think will be a largish cat. Hopefully she will get out of the habit of jumping from the top of the bookcase onto me while I’m sleeping before she gets too awfully big.
I’m not optimistic.
Look at that face. If she’s not plotting something, I’ll eat my hat…