I try not to blog about my cat too often because, well, tell too many stories about a cat and you risk becoming crazy cat lady. While the description might ... sort of, a little bit ... be true, this is one situation in which it does not pay to advertise.
However, there is an exception to every rule.
I have a fourteen pound cat who is excessively large. The VET guesstimated her weight at 10 pounds over that because she's monstrous. She's also, as I may have mentioned, not terribly bright, and not terribly graceful.
When I got her, she weighed one pound. ONE. She fit in the palm of my hand -- a little grey and white ball of fluff. A dustball with bright green eyes and little tiny feet. She was incredibly ill -- I picked her up and went straight to the vet, who thought she might not make it. "But I didn't want to tell you," he said later, "because you seemed really attached to her."
For the first six months of her life, we were at the vet every six or seven days, which easily made her the most expensive free cat I've ever had the pleasure to own. She started to thrive. And grow. And grow. And GROW. Until she became the giant fluffy fiend that she is now.
She might not be the most clever pet I've ever owned, but I will say this: she's the sweetest. If I am sad, if I am crying, she nuzzles up to me and purrs. If I leave, she is waiting at the door when I come back. She watches for me when I take the trash out. She sleeps on a chair next to my desk when I work.
Is it a little silly? Yes.
But on one of those days when you don't think you can take one more thing, when you put on your sweaties and curl up on the couch with a book and a cup of tea and a big fuzzy blanket, is there anything better than having your furry sidekick jump up, walk across the back of the sofa, curl up on your shoulder, and gently rest her head against your face?
No, ma'am, there is not.
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