Make sure to scroll down to the end.*
January, 2022.
I was never a cat person. I tolerated the strays my daughter regularly brought home (uhggg) 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 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, Stinky and Cammo, we figured they, too, would find a better offer.
Not so.
Three years later. They are still here. We had them neutered and I still thought they would head out. I would get so irritated when Cammo would pop up onto me when I was working on the deck, insisting I was the 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. Soft. Vulnerable. Defenseless. Of course, our beloved rotty, Roady, will not have it. He mopes, pathetically, when we have to bring Stinky and Cammo in at night, when temps dip too low.
Watching Cammo is fascinating. Of course, now that she knows I adore her, she plays hard to get. Damn cat.
Take a peek:
*My Cammo, died. We don’t know what it was.
It was painful and horrible.
I still miss her. Stinky is here. I try.
But it’s just not the same.
