the easiest and the hardest ones
Feb. 28th, 2013 02:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
omnia_mutantur1. Frye. My facepunching pirate of a cat. The one who occasionally sits on the dog, the one who sounds like a cursing samuel jackson when she yells. The one we got as an adult, old enough to not bother Funnyface. One of my tortoiseshell girls, who demands love on her very own terms, the one who occasionally will carry a toy around in her mouth and mutter at it. The one who rabbit punches our hands and steals the dog's food. The one I fell in love with almost immediately upon giving up on finding a new cat after Princess died.
2. Brat. My cancer-kitten, the one I taught to yell in my face, the one who stands on the table, and puts her front legs on a chair back so she can look us in the eye when we get home, in what we can only assume is hope of convincing us she's never been fed. My glutton, my graceless, my most annoying, another one of my tortoiseshell girls. The one who occasionally will bite my fingers instead of the treat I'm holding out, the one who climbs up to the third shelf of the bookcase and yells until someone comes and admires how clever she is. My tape eater, my breaker of things.
3. Noisy. My giant cat with a teeny noise, my bushy tailed, bushy-footed coward of a cat, who likes it when Light picks her up and I hug Light and she's squished between us. The one who perks up every time Light opens a DVD because he'll ball the cellophane up for her, wrap it in the sticky tape and throw it for her. The one with the decoy belly, who will love having belly-scritches right up until she decide to try to claw open your hand. The one to make up for the cat Light lost in his divorce, the one who sleeps curled in a ball, with her nose tucked into her tail.
4. Princess, my sweetest cat, my tuxedo girl, my white-footed beauty, the one who used to always sleep on the other side of the bed, and when Light came along, every night would jump onto what we considered her side of the bed, and I would tell her "not tonight". The one who stood under the dripping faucet in northampton, the one who would cuddle in a bucketchair with Funnyface, the one I got as a kitten for Funnyface. The one who gentled and trusted more as the years passed, until she became the one who jumped on the bed when the alarm went off, so she could headbutt me over and over again until I paid her proper attention.
5. And, of course, my Funnyface. My shower-singer, shoulder-rider, potato-chip stealer. My first, my best, my baby girl. My anchor, and my gooey soft center. The one who saved me, over and over again. The one who taught me about love and what makes a place a home. The first of my tortoiseshell girls.
2. Brat. My cancer-kitten, the one I taught to yell in my face, the one who stands on the table, and puts her front legs on a chair back so she can look us in the eye when we get home, in what we can only assume is hope of convincing us she's never been fed. My glutton, my graceless, my most annoying, another one of my tortoiseshell girls. The one who occasionally will bite my fingers instead of the treat I'm holding out, the one who climbs up to the third shelf of the bookcase and yells until someone comes and admires how clever she is. My tape eater, my breaker of things.
3. Noisy. My giant cat with a teeny noise, my bushy tailed, bushy-footed coward of a cat, who likes it when Light picks her up and I hug Light and she's squished between us. The one who perks up every time Light opens a DVD because he'll ball the cellophane up for her, wrap it in the sticky tape and throw it for her. The one with the decoy belly, who will love having belly-scritches right up until she decide to try to claw open your hand. The one to make up for the cat Light lost in his divorce, the one who sleeps curled in a ball, with her nose tucked into her tail.
4. Princess, my sweetest cat, my tuxedo girl, my white-footed beauty, the one who used to always sleep on the other side of the bed, and when Light came along, every night would jump onto what we considered her side of the bed, and I would tell her "not tonight". The one who stood under the dripping faucet in northampton, the one who would cuddle in a bucketchair with Funnyface, the one I got as a kitten for Funnyface. The one who gentled and trusted more as the years passed, until she became the one who jumped on the bed when the alarm went off, so she could headbutt me over and over again until I paid her proper attention.
5. And, of course, my Funnyface. My shower-singer, shoulder-rider, potato-chip stealer. My first, my best, my baby girl. My anchor, and my gooey soft center. The one who saved me, over and over again. The one who taught me about love and what makes a place a home. The first of my tortoiseshell girls.
