It was slightly more than a year ago that the petite young lady moved in. While she made no promise to love and honor us, she neither protested nor rebelled at her change in domicile.
Little Willow weighed less than 3 pounds, and was so adorable, so fluffy, so comical that both the young lad in the house and the mature woman knew they’d done the right thing by providing her with a forever home.
In the first few months with her new family, Willow explored the house and became more and more comfortable. As her familiarity grew, so did her confidence. Before the year was up, she strutted around as if she owned the place and the people in it.
Now, at more than 6 pounds, she is fully aware that she rules the roost. The house is all hers. Her kitten’s sense of adventure has remained intact despite her “maturity,” and she’s a constant source of entertainment and an occasional source of consternation. She frequently knocks the telephone off its base, spewing its components hither and yon. She still thinks she’s permitted to stick her cute little pink nose into anyone’s beverage and, if it’s agreeable to her, have a sip or two, or merely bat around the ice cubes contained therein.
She sometimes “Dumpster dives” into the trash can, foraging for forbidden morsels. She has a particular fondness for dairy products of any type and she’s batted the butter dish to the floor more than once.
Lady Willow gets great enjoyment from jumping into containers, be they boxes, baskets or bags. Yet, her attention span is extremely short. A visitor to the home may think the empty cardboard carton, the milk jug ring, the grocery bag, the plastic overwrap from a deodorant stick and the numerous strings of yarn strewn about the place are trash that we’re too lazy to pick up. This is not the case. Those items are cat toys, thank you very much.
As is her nature, she likes to view the world from above and the higher she can climb, the happier she is. She also likes to view the outside world and she’s staked out window perches in the living room, dining room and her latest favorite, the bathroom.
She still alternates between slow and deliberate “moseying” around to charging full force down the stairs as if trying to win the pole position at the Indy 500. On some of these “charging” occasions, her “brakes” fail and she slides into a radiator or piece of furniture. I fully expect her to knock herself out on one of these escapades.
Willow likes her cat naps and is fond of the back of the loveseat, or on any human for these little sleeps. (As this is written, she’s on top of the computer desk, gazing around or, as I like to say, “looking for trouble,” but her eyes are trying to close.)
Although I talk to her often, she doesn’t reply. She doesn’t respond to commands unless it suits her. You’d think by now that she knows what “get down!” means, but no.
I love to kiss her nose and tell her she’s the prettiest cat ever. At least she doesn’t try to scratch my eyes out when I do this.
She cries for her “little boy” when he’s not here. By the same token, when it’s bedtime and he wants her to go upstairs with him, she darts and dashes away each time he gets near her.
She is a true bundle of joy and I love her so much. And now I understand how a normal, sensible woman can become a “cat lady.”