My house has been adopted by an orange tabby cat. It’s a pretty cat, scrawny, the way street cats are, but the fur looks healthy, if a tad dirty, and it’s been sleeping on our front porch for about three weeks now, on and off. Today, when the porch got too hot, it was underneath the shrubbery against the foundation of the house, um…cat-napping.
This, of course, has kicked Miss Cleo into “Queen of the House and Protector of All She Surveys” mode, because she’s part Staffie, and thinks any movement beyond the doors is an attack upon herself. She sits inside the door with her black nose pressed against the glass making low, threatening growly sounds, almost like she’s percolating.
The cat deigns to raise its head every so often, then goes back to sleep.
This makes Miss Cleo even more pissed off. Kitty should be scared, dammit, she growls. Then she comes to me for attention whining abut how Kitty won’t run away when she growls.
I thank her for her diligence, pat her on the head, and ask her where her chewy is. She dutifully trots off to find her chew-stick, and this keeps her occupied for an hour or so.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Tabby by Melissa Bartell is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.