A couple of days ago, a (very) young lady with a patchwork coat walked up to our door telling us she was lost, and requesting assistance. She conveyed this by launching herself as soon as the door was opened, using needle-sharp claws to scale my jeans and t-shirt until she attained my shoulder, whereupon she settled down as if she had always been there.
So we now have a wee pound and a half scrap of calico fur quarantined upstairs, until we’re sure she isn’t going to come down with something. She’s been to the vet; considering that she’s all of about 5 or 6 weeks old and has been on her own, she was in remarkably good shape. So she’s been dewormed, and treated for ear mites and fleas, and has a couple of days of regular meals in her tummy. The difference is amazing, and so is the purr. She loves to play, to be petted, to be carried around (at least if I’m doing the carrying). We’ve told our son we can’t keep a third cat, and he hasn’t argued, but he does get teary-eyed every time he thinks about it. I understand that; I do too. She’s a very sweet-natured little girl, and clearly considers us Her People already. That one’s going to require some serious adult discussion.
When scared, her first reaction is to leap for my knee and climb up the rest of the way to my shoulder. That represents safety for her. Of course it wasn’t enough when she caught a glimpse of the big cats; not only did she climb me, she tried to climb over the top my chair. Poor baby; I plucked her off and held her in my hands, assuring her carefully that she was safe. She wasn’t buying – there was much hissing and growling, and none of it came from Tornado or Sophia. The baby looked deeply offended when I laughed, but what was I to do? There she was, defending her honor and turf, back arched and tail fluffed and ready to take on all comers…all while standing with all four white paws firmly in the palm of my hand, with room to spare.