The moment the shelter worker brought her into the room she plastered herself to the wall like only the best covert operative could. Her black bottle-brush tail as puffed up as she could make it, she slinked along the wall to hide behind the desk.
The first cat we saw was a rambunctious Russian Blue. This was a life of the party kind of cat, with his jumping and bouncing and his unfortunately bobbed tail showing off his even more unfortunate-looking freshly neutered half-balls.
The second cat was a tabby princess with a fluffy Persian face. She was a diva and wanted all the rubs and scratches and lovins. A cuddle monster for sure.
But this third cat wanted nothing to do with us and everything to do with the space under the desk behind the trash can. Some personality, eh?
After several unsuccessful attempts to lure her out with a temptingly friendly hand to sniff, or an exciting feathery toy, I finally reached under the desk to fish out the scaredy cat. I scooped her up and put her in my lap. She sat there briefly, frozen, and looked up at my face.
Then she went back under the desk.
That was it. Less than 10 minutes of interaction, and I made my choice. Scaredy Cat. Somebody would love Mr. Half-Balls, and somebody would adore Princess Purr. Scaredy Cat didn’t have the wherewithal to make herself interesting. So I would take her home.
She’s not a people cat. She doesn’t like to show off, or greet visitors, or be touched by anyone outside of a small circle of 3 people. She likes to be in the room with people, but she’d prefer if they ignored her.
When babies cry she runs up to them to make sure they’re OK. When loud music plays she rolls on her back in joy.
She hunts cockroaches and delicately places their shredded carcasses under furniture.
Her favorite napping spot is my Danish Modern chair. She sleeps there while I read, clean, cook, or watch movies.
The first night I took her home, I put her on my bed before I turned out the light – she was still small enough that to get onto the bed she’d have to claw her way up the overhanging bedspread.
She curled up near my knees, but not touching. I waited. She got up and moved up toward my waist, curling up again, still not touching. Still I waited. She uncurled and walked toward where my hand lay under the covers. She sat on it. She curled up. And she stayed.
That’s how we sleep, even now.
She’s my only cat, and she’s the only cat I want. She had a cat roomie for a while, because my roomie had a cat. Scaredy Cat was…ahem…displeased, but she got over it and befriended the little bugger. It wasn’t till we moved out, into a roomie-free apartment, that I realized she loves living alone even more than I do.
When I get home from work every day she runs to the bathroom sink and cries until I turn the faucet on for her, so she can play in the water.
She’s neurotic. She’s picky. She’s introverted. Other people probably wouldn’t like her.
But I do.