I’m a Corgi person from way back. This summer, my oldest Corgi crossed the Rainbow Bridge after 16 years on this earth.
Because I am simply not ready to have another dog, we acquired a cat through a bit of fortuitous luck when a neighbor told us the stray they’d taken in had kittens. Would we want one?
I’m not a cat person. My sister is a cat person. Her cats have personality, adore her children, and she treats them better than her own kids sometimes. That was my sister, though. Not me. I’m a dog person.
I will forever love Darius Rucker and Hootie and the Blowfish. And for some reason, this name totally fits.
Hootie is a kitten. At the time of this writing, he’s about six months old. And oh.my.goodness is he a handful. Just a moment ago, I yelled at him to stop attempting to swing from the shower curtain. Daily, it’s a litany of disbelief at either something he’s done or his amazing feline acrobatics. Throw in a nearly three-year old and, well, it seems chaos is our new normal.
Everyone tells me that he’ll get better. My really great friend encouraged me to hang in for another six months. That seems like an eternity.
When I walked into the house this afternoon, he perched on the window, meowing joyfully and purring like an engine. I picked him up and he arched his back under my nose, curling his tail in a way that gave me a mustache.
I laughed at him and pulled his face in close to mine. After a momentary staring contest–those eyes!–he did what is most appropriate for a kitten at his age, I guess: he shrugged himself out of my arms and immediately chased down a pipe cleaner that was lost under a book case.
But when he slows down, eventually stopping, he curls by my feet while I’m working, keeps me company in the early morning while I drink my coffee and read, cuddles up on the blanket as I watch TV.
I’m working on a begrudging acceptance of this new situation. I’m kind of liking it.