Up until December 8, 2015, my experience with cats could be described in the following ways.
- My aunt’s cat had a personal bubble the size of the living room.
- My sister’s cat–who incidentally met me first and, according to my dog-loving sensibilities, should have bonded with me–was a fickle-minded creature that switched from kneading my stomach to biting my hand in quick order.
- Most cats bring on this slow-rising antihistamine sensation along my back and into my throat. (Although sometimes this reaction to felines is helpful. I use it as a gauge for leaving gatherings.)
- One of my brother’s cats inspired this poem:
And yet, on December 8, 2015, I became the owner of a Ragdoll-Himalayan kitten my oldest son dubbed Yeti.
Understand my intention was to buy a cat over thirteen who would live in our basement and catch the allusive vermin plaguing my husband’s work area. By my estimation, the cat–to be affectionately known as Quasimodo–would succumb along with the demise of the mice and save me from any episodes of anaphylactic shock.
Possibly my first “mistake” was bringing my oldest son with me to the Animal Humane Society. He immediately recognized a prize when he saw Yeti since his girlfriend had recently rescued a three-year-old Ragdoll from a kitty mill. My second “mistake” was all my fault. When asked what we were looking for by one of the volunteers, I said we were looking for a kitty–not cat–and we were promptly steered to the kitten corral.
My son promptly engaged with this three-month-old, bi-color, Ragdoll-mix who greeted him at the door. We procured a visiting room to the chagrin of the mingling cat-lovers fully aware of the treasure we possessed.
Then I became fully aware.
So begins the (Somewhat Cat) part of this blog. There will be more to come about my new appreciation for feline companions and the joy one in particular has brought to my family. Until then, know…
this cat is in the bag.