I may have accidentally adopted a stray cat.
Well, maybe it was only halfway accidental. I was the one who went and made friends with it and then opened the door to see if it would come in. But it’s all-the-way stray. Half-grown, lean, with a little chunk out of the tip of one of its big ears. Male or female? I don’t know yet. Hence, it still doesn’t have a name. Besides, I feel that naming it crosses the point of no return. And, unfortunately, I don’t know whether or not I can keep it. Not only is one of my best friends allergic, but there is no way I can afford my apartment complex’s pet fee. At the moment, I’m trying to see if they will waive the pet fee if I take the cat off their hands. It is, after all, living under their apartment complex, a most undesirable thing even in a small town like Oak Harbor.
I know, I know… I should never have let it inside.
It’s part of a running problem I have. My other best friend Mary (who, as far as I know, is not allergic to cats) called it my “lost kitten” problem long before it extended to literal lost kittens. You see, I collect lonely souls and befriend them—now and then, against their will or at least against social custom. I then look after them until their circumstances become less dire, at which point they graduate into a certain irretrievable state of being forever cherished. Granted, over the years, there have been one or two “kittens” who turned around and scratched me badly, and have had to go for the good of all considered. But, by and large, my arsenal of dear friends is now largely composed of former “kittens.”
I was chatting with Kristina (the friend who is allergic to cats) today, and suggested that maybe this particular kitten smelled something on me that told him I couldn’t refuse him. As cats go, this is the kind I’d end up with. Is it the aloof, distant kind who can trace her lineage directly to Egyptian goddesses? No. It’s a scrap-eared waif who, if he were a person, would definitely be called “needy”—who feels the need to follow me around so closely I trip over him.
But the good thing about needy kitties is that they’ll do what this one is doing right now—when you’re feeling lonely because it’s a cold, dark fall night and you’re alone (again) for the evening, the kitty will curl up on your lap and purr like a little machine, keeping you warm and not quite so alone.
Can I keep it? I don’t know yet. But I do know one thing—I will take the “lost kitten” over the pet store cat any day. I like my kitties needy.