Thirteen

The cat has turned thirteen. She is doing remarkably well. We obtained her as a four month old kitten from an animal rescue centre and had been advised that she was the runt of the litter of a very young female cat of under a year old, who was herself considered to be only a kitten. All of the other brothers and sisters of the litter had died with the exception of our little runt. She was the only black and white kitten at the rescue centre. She looked so very long and thin and we were told she would never be a large cat. Here we are all these years later with a very pretty queen, supporting long, lustrous whiskers. Her eyes are bright and there are times when we see the lion in her actions and personality. She guards our garden both front and back, the drive and the nearby houses, which are all her territory. How dare any other feline put their paws anywhere on what she considers to be her land? She slaps any cat who tries to encroach on her territory on the behind with a multi-pat of paws like an animal from a pride. Strangely, I have seen male cats twice her size cower and flee at speed – and yet she is not at all nasty. She is full of purrs and rubs and loving …