Taffy was a rescue cat. When I got her, she lived in a house with a very friendly older couple, their pet dog, a bird, and 29 other cats. That’s right; 29. Oddly enough, the house didn’t smell. It was actually pretty impressive. I spent a long time looking over the cats she had rescued from various situations, deciding which one I was going to take home with me. They were all super friendly, but none of them really felt like “my cat”. Taffy was actually one of the last I looked at. She lived in the basement with about 10 others, two of them being her brother and mother. She was lounged on the couch, and when I walked up to her to pet her, her ears went flat against her skull and she hissed at me. Yup, I chose the meanie. I wasn’t planning on taking her family home with me as well, but the lady who rescued them all told me that was ok, Taffy was more of a loner anyway. Boy, was that the truth. I can’t believe she lived in that house with so many other cats. She hates other cats. Once I tried to rescue this little orange and white kitten from underneath my porch, and as soon as I brought him in the house Taffy threw a shit-fit, hissing and screaming and spitting and all of that.
So after a bit of protest on Taffy’s part, we got her in the carrier and off I went with my mean cat. I got her home and let her out of the carrier, and she proceeded to hide in a suitcase underneath my bed for three days. I remember calling my mom, being worried that this little cat that I just brought home was going to starve to death because she wouldn’t come out of the suitcase. Of course, she didn’t. And she grew up to be one of the sweetest, most loving creatures I’ve ever met. I take full credit for that.
I got her because I was lonely. I lived alone, relatively far from campus, and while I had friends in the apartment complex, we all had busy lives and I was alone a lot of the time. I figured, hey, I’ll get a cat. They’re independent and quiet, and no one will ever know she’s here. Oh dear lord was I wrong. First of all, I happened to end up with a talker. Maybe I created that, because I talk to her a lot, and I think she’s just responding to me, but still. She talks all… the… time. She must think I understand what she’s saying to me. And she howls. See she doesn’t play like a normal cat. She has plenty of toys, but she would prefer me to not be involved in the playing. She wants to drag those toys all over god’s green earth, and she wants everyone within earshot to know she’s doing it.Second, this is the least independent animal I’ve ever met. Even my parents dog is more independent than this cat. If I’m on the couch, she’s on the couch. It’s even worse if I’m knitting. I swear this cat has some kind of psychic ability to sense yarn. If I’m in bed, she’s in bed. She curls up with me like we’re spooning. Obviously she’s the little spoon. If I’m in the bathroom, so is she. In fact, if I decide to close the bathroom door to get some privacy, she will stand at the door and howl until I either come out or open the door.
And god forbid I’m eating anything that she wants. She stuck her face in my mac and cheese last night. But it’s ok, because I love her, and she loves me right back. Besides, it’s her world, she just lets me share it with her.
Tomorrow: Part two!!