Bleh

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. 

Homeowner

Ms. Tortie lounges on the patio of her winter abode, a cardboard carton 

set under the balcony of her owner's home. Her thoughtful owner also provided 

a thermal weave blanket for added protection from winter's cold winds.

Textured Tuesday: Taylor, Softening

This is Taylor, who is named after the young woman who brought her to me 

one cold night over two years ago, when the streets were covered with snow and ice.

She was thin and filthy dirty, her fur matted in places with oil.

Holding her was almost impossible; stiff-legged with fear, she did not

care to be held, and we both struggled, me to hold her, she to get free. 

Someone had abused her because loud voices and heavy footfalls 

outside my door would send her into hiding for twenty-four hours at a time.

Now, she's not gone so long after being scared and may even

respond when I call her name. If there is a noise and I tell her it's OK, 

she will often stand for a moment, consider the information,

then come back to hide beneath the couch rather than inside the

bathroom washstand.

I'd gotten my previous cats when they were small kittens. 

Over the years we developed a vocabulary and they knew, 

over time, that certain events would happen, or not, 

related to whatever sounds had emanated from their human. 

I could play tag with them, a version of hide-and-seek that Taylor

interprets as a threat, so that game's out. One would fetch, 

the other would sit up, lie down, or leap for treats, at my request, 

because, after all, you do not command a cat.

Taylor and I are a work in progress. She'll let me hold her a bit and,

 when I rub my face in her fur, she smells like cookies.

Usually, she's curled up in a tight wad about six feet from wherever

I happen to be and spends a good portion of the time sleeping

beside me on the couch. We are developing our own

vocabulary, which is small, but she's telling me she likes to be

close and I am happy with that.

   

Rainy Friday

Amid a patch of dried, black echinacea, are a few that bloomed 

after their brethren had succumbed to the summer heat. 

I took a slightly different path to the convenience store, 

only about a quarter mile from home. The different route 

got me this picture of a cat, wiling away the afternoon 

watching the leaves dance in the afternoon breeze.

And then there were sodden roses, their bright pink color 

set off against the dark green leaves and red stems.