Polly the calico, as you already know, will reach up and catch your hand between her paws, draw you down to her level to pet her cheek, roll over and let you pet her belly.
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| Lumi the whatever cat in her tent |
Lumi the whatever cat, likes to crawl under the bedsheets with a polite "Please prop up a tent with your knees, okay thanks bye," and fall asleep in the tepee you made. If your hands are under the covers, she will lick them all over.
Tsuki the calico will knock down the brush and catnip when she wants to be brushed and given catnip. A gentle chomp on the calf when you misunderstand her. She's a swell communicator and a jerk. Every inch a cat. Sitting on the stairs, you're likely to get a sneak attack hug from behind; both paws on your shoulders and a bump on the back of the head, some hair chewing.
Bellamy the grey tabby loves people and food, but maybe not in that order. Abandoned by some dumb kids in a garden apartment with a giant ripped bag of food, a dry water dish, and a mound of urine and feces where a litter box maybe used to be. Bugs everywhere. She's affectionate and trusts you right away. A compliant little rag doll who thanks you for saving her every day of her life.
If you're not careful – say, watching the TV and paying no mind to him – Jiji will place his paws on either side of your neck and squeeze, bump your chin with his head. A hug. A black cat with oversized fangs, his shelter name was Vlad. First thing he does in your home is leap five feet in the air and rip the coatrack from the wall.
Almost everyone who's had rescue or shelter animals has had a cat like Paolo. He's the manic pixy. Spotted under a car across the street from our apartment, a tiny distressed orange speck who has been declawed but not neutered. He grows to sixteen pounds and is a hot mess for his entire life. Poops on the floor, steals nibbles from your cooling muffins in the tin, frequently stresses out for no discernible reason. Crying and panting at phantom horrors. You're going to love him forever.
Your dumb roommate from Texas names the brown tabby he brought home Benjamin Bogus, but you just call him Bogie because what Beatrix Potter level fuckery is that anyway. Purchased from a pet shop much too young (he sleeps in your shoe) to impress a chick who fails to be impressed, it's only a matter of weeks before Bogie is yours, not the dumb Texan's, for the next 20+ years. First night you meet him he falls asleep on your chest where you're sure his purring is going to reduce his tiny body to atoms. Sings softly from a further room just to sing, a prettier sound than you would think a cat could make. He sits on your shoulder and watches you draw, hypnotized by the loops and scratches of pencil on sketchpad. You can feel him there still.
A mutt whose name you can't recall except that it started with K, is a baby when you meet him. It's a nonsense name made up by your sister, who is four. Only three memories of him will last: A black and white puppy chasing you around the room, you panic-laughing, him peeing on everything and falling asleep in his pee; You remember his teeth on your hand when you accidentally stepped on his tail while he was sleeping; The sight of his hindquarters as he crawls under the front gate, the last time you ever see him. You're only a toddler and have no foresight how much this will bug you later.
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