I picked up my first foster feline this week, and I fear she may be my last.
She’s so adorable I may have to adopt her.
I tried calling her by her name, Angel, but it made me gag, so I promptly started calling her Maple. That’s the benefit of fostering a cat over a child. Kids don’t like it when you change their name.
Maple is a petite and mellow two-year-old that feels like an Angora rabbit. Her classic green eyes glisten in the light and her big paws sprout little tufts of fur, repeatedly kneading the air in a comforting move. This move also makes it look like she’s flexing her kitty biceps.
Recovering from being spayed and adjusting to her new environment, she still prefers the corner to the couch and actually likes her pet taxi, but she falls over in excitement at the prospect of being pet.
Her tortie long-haired look is gorgeous (already a biased momma), but I can’t become that woman who breezes into work in a layer of hair, trailed by a longer layer of hair, so I hit the store for a good brush. Do you have any idea how many brush varieties are out there and how much they resemble dog brushes and how long it takes me to come to the conclusion that they’re the same brush with different packaging? Fortunately, Maple loves the pin brush.
I take care to pick out the perfect a fuzzy mouse (dangly arms, whiskers), but she looks at me as if to say, Did you think I’d fall for that? And when I show her the pool of sunlight by the patio doors, certain that she’ll want to curl up there forever, she wanders away to huddle by the speaker, back in the corner, like a willing dunce.
Mostly, she stays in one room to feel secure, but we did watch a documentary the other evening (Exit Through the Gift Shop), and while I was hoping she would dig indie films as much as I do, she fell asleep. Looks like it’s back to the shelter for you, Maple.
OK, not really. We’re watching House now, and while she’s fallen asleep again, it’s in that quintessential curled-up-cat-ball with her paw resting on my arm, purring like the motor in a fish tank. Oh, and she just took a deep kitty sigh. I’m a goner.