This is my cat, Taylor, grooming herself
in the morning sun. (Bleh!) She came to me three years
ago last December, filthy, abused, and frightened.
I'd gotten my previous cats when they were kittens.
This is the first that came to me grown,
with a history that was unknown, one that would
need to be sort of torn down to rebuild her confidence.
It was several months before she would not run
to hide under the bed for what seemed
like days, every time someone stomped
their feet on the stairs in the hall.
She's not a lap cat, really, but is sitting on my lap
as I type, watching the letters for this post
appear on the screen. I think she started
this because the floors have been so cold this winter.
Generally, she will lie a few feet away, curled up
in the window or on the floor by a bookcase.
But the winter has broken down one of
her defenses, and she is now a lap cat,
warming her toes on her human's lap.