I never was a cat person. I would tolerate the strays my daughter regularly brought home (uggg) but never invested emotionally to any—except maybe Igby, who was tragically strangled when he got caught in plumbing pipes. (We got an 8-page condolence letter from the eccentric ladies two doors down. Apparently Igby had life in the nabe!) I can’t count how many felines Tony buried for my daughter at our previous farm.
Here, strays showed up at our barn home but never stayed long. We figured they found better food down the road! So when our latest 2 cats showed up, Slinky and Cammo, we figured they, too, would find a better offer.
Not so.
It has been almost a year and they are still here. We had them both neutered and still thought they would head out. I used to get so irritated when I would be working out on the deck and Cammo would pop up onto me, insisting on finding a spot to rest. But after her recent surgery, when she had to be inside, wearing her pitiful cone of shame, we bonded. Go figure.
I loved how she would nestle into my lap and stay for hours. How soft. How vulnerable. Of course, our beloved rotty, Roady, will have not much of it. He mopes pathetically when we have to bring Slinky and Cammo in at night, when the temps dip too low. I have found watching Cammo fascinating. Of course now that she knows I adore her, she plays hard to get. Damn cat.
Take a peek:
early bird 
found our junk 
on my chest 
ready to jump 
on my oldest chair 
following me on my walk
