Oh, right, here’s a Thing that’s been happening. Um, well, you know Lilu died at the end of January and it was horrid and I grieved (and still do). I am croggled: how does the loss of an 8-pound cat make our gigantic house seem so empty?
So in April I started campaigning for a cat from the local shelter. I didn’t want to raise another cat from infancy – turns out you get too attached when you do that, and besides, shelter cats need rescuing. After considerable debate (A Certain Husband may have changed his mind a few more times than was strictly necessary) we settled on a black foundling named Mona. She still needed to be fixed (the pound is very against unnecessary kittens) and vaccinated and given ID-tattoos (badass pirate kitty). Then she needed 10 days to recover, and someone from the pound visited our house to make sure we know what we’re getting into and we’re not living in filth or buying cats to feed to our alligators or something, and then on Friday we got to take her home and change her name – because srsly, James Taylor wrote a song about a pig named Mona and that’s a song virus I can live without. Now she has to live inside and poop in a box for six weeks, and then we can let her out.
She was friendly enough at the shelter, but when we got her home and opened the carrier she zooped into the nearest bathroom and stuffed herself into a corner. I gave her a few hours’ time and then pried her out so I could show her where her food is in the kitchen. She zooped into another corner. Sigh.
So we’ve set up her litter box and scratching post and food and water in the laundry room and she’s parked on top of one of the wardrobes the landlord left behind – it’s got a bunch of straw futon-thingies on top. And there she stays. Two nights ago I stayed up really late and around 1 a.m. she tiptoed into the crow’s nest and prowled around, sniffing things, but she won’t approach anyone.
We batted around a lot of names, but the one that seems to be sticking is Hecate – goddess of magic, crossroads, and the moon.
So yeah. We sort of have a sort of cat. We’ll see how this develops.
Song du jour of the day: Running Scared, by Roy Orbison.