I'm lying on my back right now, on our new(ish) comfy couch, my laptop on my lap.

Between the screen and my face is (Miss) Scarlett, my cat, reclined on my chest, suckling her leg, eyes closed and purring. You can feel and hear her contentedness.

About this time 6 years ago a roommate of mine showed up to our shabby, sewage flood prone basement apartment with a kitten as an early birthday gift for me.

She came in a box from the Cambridge Humane Society and was the runt of the litter. She was one of 6 kittens who were seized from an abusive home. Her ears looked way too big for her head, and her tail was way too long for her body. Her kitten-sized collar was so big for her tiny little neck that we had to tape a loop of it together so that it didn't fall off. She was awkward, gangly, and very, very scared of everything.

For the first weeks she slinked along the walls, never stood up tall, and hid under the bed 99% of the time. She was very afraid of people, especially men.

Slowly, and with a great deal of coaxing with food, and me pulling her out from underneath whatever she was under she became less fearful.

Out of nowhere she switched from timid and terrified to being a complete princess. She would spring out from wherever she was when she heard a treat bag opening. She eventually even started sleeping out in the open and coming up to me on her own just to visit.

With her newfound fearlessness came a sense of play. That whole summer I tried not to wear shorts, knowing that the moment I did she would try to climb my leg like a telephone pole so she could sit atop my shoulder.

Every kitten has an appetite to play, but she was something else. She would splash the water in the toilet, carry socks out of my room in her mouth and shake them dead and run full speed after more conventional cat toys. She managed to eat several "feathers on a stick"type toys that summer. I think every toy she had at one point was dropped into the toilet bowl.

The apartment itself, apart from being a sewage-smelling death trap, did have a nice (non broken) window at shoulder height beside the sink. The window ended up being her favourite place to look out, but given that it was almost 5 feet off the ground she used me as a jungle gym, claws out the whole time. to get to the window. I don't think I managed to do the dishes once that summer without acquiring a new scratch.

When I took her to the vet's to get spayed we learned she had a heart murmur. The vet was too worried to do the surgery and risk having her die under anaesthetic. We declined to do it right then, and took her to our vet at home who is not only nice, fantastic, and wonderful, but a fantastic vet I knew I could trust.

She stayed with my parents after being spayed, and quickly wormed her way into my parents' hearts, especially my dad.

She trained him to take her feather toy upstairs and play under the covers of the bed so she could pounce and attack it. Anytime he even walked close to the stairs she would run, full speed, claws out for traction upstairs to wait for him in case he wanted to play (he usually gave in)

No wonder she's such a princess. We're happy to spoil her and cater to her (almost) every whim six years later.

She is nothing like the kitten that first summer, save one thing.





She still suckles her front leg. She'll only do it curled up on me (or Dave, or other people in my family) and I can only describe it as a very deep need for her.


As she gets up off my chest she stretches, looks up at me, and licks her leg to hide any signs of her fur being messy from the suckling. She nudges her face against mine, swats the dog's nose for coming too close, and jumps down.

If you ever want proof that I'm an incurable sucker

...all you need to do is look at Rhett.

While living in Windsor I went with Sara one day to help her rescue a kitten who was sick and going to be put down. I was absolutely NOT going to go home with another animal. I was merely tagging along for the ride.

I came home an hour later having adopted Rhett.

He had been in a tiny 2x2x2 crate at the humane society for a few weeks already and was an older cat. When I walked past his crate he reached out with his paw (and claws). I was hooked literally and figuratively. I opened the door and he purred and meowed with all his might. He wriggled around in my arms like he was trying to make sure as many square inches of his body as was possible were touching me and being petted. He nearly fell out of my arms a few times. I don't think I've ever seen a creature who was more happy just to be held.

With fresh tooth marks on my hands and arms from his zealous love bites I gladly whipped out my debit card and decided I couldn't leave without him.*

I named him Rhett, but the name doesn't suit him at all. He's a Gilligan. He loves everyone and everything but isn't among the brainiacs of the animal world. He often sees a nail in the wall and thinks it's a spider and will pounce on it. Repeatedly. He bites things (and people) when he's hungry. If someone came into our house right now and paid attention to him he'd leave in a second to go live with them, and forget he ever lived here. Not maliciously or anything, he'd just be so excited he'd forget about us.

The twist, of course on this new plan was that Miss Scarlett (aka Miss. Hissy, Miss. Pissy, or Miss. Crankypants) already ruled the roost** at home. Thankfully I knew bringing Rhett home wouldn't be smooth so no great expectations.

His first few days Rhett lived in the TINY bathroom of my Windsor apartment. He was un-tutored which meant he was fond of spraying, as adult males do. It also meant the pink monster (or red rocket) would occasionally pop up when I was petting him. This led to me running from the bathroom a couple of times.

Scarlett spent the first two weeks on a stakeout outside the bathroom door, hissing and growling to welcome him. When he was finally released from the confines of the bathroom after a trip to the vet's, she spent the next months chasing him to beat him up for intruding on HER space.

Nearly two years later I catch him coming to see her when she's sleeping, hoping for a quick few licks on the head or someone to snuggle up to. She's still fond of biting his ear, but it's more of an affectionate bite now than an "I'm going to tear you to shreds, dummy" bite.

He was a skinny little cat with wiry, coarse hair when I got him. He's now a plump sausage shaped cat who still loves nothing more than to curl up on you, purring loudly, flailing wildly. He's a master at both breaking into bags of expensive diet cat food, and none-too-stealthily-but-very-persistently eating from the dogs' bowls. He goes after cat toys with such focus it's as though he's possessed. He loves sleeping like Big Bird, with his paws stretched over his head.

The moment I come home Rhett comes racing for the door, belly jiggling and meowing the whole way as though he's telling me about his day. When he gets within a few feet he usually flops on the floor and rolls around on his belly meowing. It's like he's doing an impression of bacon frying. He couldn't be happier. It's as though his brain has some wires mixed up which make him permanently happy, for no reason. There isn't a mean bone in his body or a mean thought in his head (Dave would correct me and say there are no thoughts in his head).

I'm so glad I ignored all common sense and didn't leave him at the shelter that day, almost two years ago now.

____________________________________________________________________

*well, actually the shelter had a policy where you had to wait 24 hours before picking up an animal, and it was a Saturday so I actually did leave that day but came back on Monday to get him.

**if she could talk she'd point out it was her house.

***This fact also meant that the pink monster (aka red rocket) would show up if you pet him too much and made for some awkward moments with me running from the bathroom yelling EW!