Puddin' tells her story
|Originally published in the |
Dad says Dancer was mean as a snake and wasn’t happy unless she was angry, whatever that means. Katrina was only nine years old when she went to kitty heaven, but Dancer lived to be an ornery twenty-two. Perhaps there’s something about being mean that leads to longevity. Together, Katrina and Dancer trained all the dogs in the home. Those two trained them to stay off the carpet and the furniture, to share their big water bowl with us cats, and to defer to us in all things.
Dancer passed away in mid-December one year, and I came along the following spring. There’s a joke around our house about who let whom get a new kitty. When Ganma asked my Mum when she was going to get a new kitty, Mum replied, “Well, I’m thinking about it; you know Dad’s not as fond of cats as I am.” Ganma took that to mean Dad wouldn’t “let” Mum get a new cat. You’d think Ganma would have known better.
When Mum was ready, she scoured the internet for rescue kitties. She wanted another calico because we’re special and, did I mention, beautiful? She and Miss Beverly, Banjo’s Royal Critter Sitter, searched and compared notes for weeks until they found a kitty they wanted to meet. When Mum and Dad picked up Miss Beverly, she’d discovered another kitty to check out, so they made their first stop at a local vet. Yes, the tiny thing was a cutie, but Mum had to see the other choice too, so off they went.
I was the other choice. My foster mom saw a man throw me from the window of a pickup truck along with a black kitty, and she rescued us from the bushes. Blackie left the nest first, leaving me by myself.
I was shy when the entourage came to meet me, and Dad and Miss Beverly were leaning towards going back to get the first kitty, until Mum, the wise woman she is, made the decision that I was the one for her. And that’s how I came to be a Penn pet.
As did Katrina and Dancer before me, I rule the roost. I sleep on the dog beds in the bedroom, the den, and Mum’s office. I have blankets and smaller beds on the couches, and I get to sleep with my pet parents whenever I like. I’m known for flopping, as Dad calls it, so I can stretch as folks rub my gold-and white-colored belly.
Even though Mum chose me, I’m partial to Dad’s lap and like to lie beside him when he reads in bed. I put my head on his shoulder and nudge his chin so I can see what he’s reading.
I share the love with Mum by reclining on her desk as she writes, demanding treats from the desk drawer, and curling up on her back in the middle of the night. As for the joke about who let whom get another kitty, Mum and Dad are always saying to each other, “Aren’t you lucky I ‘let’ you get a kitty?” I’m sure my readers know the answer to that question.