13-ish Pounds of Opinion, Fluff, and Entitlement

The day I got a cat was the day everyone who knew me went into shock.

I had so many reasons not to want one, with allergies ranking high on the list. However, I had one friend who volunteered at Furkids and posted videos and pictures of sweet little critters on a weekly basis, if not more often.

And truth be told, my home had been broken into, leaving me feeling a bit alone and off-center. I thought the company, though not protective, might be comforting.

I went to Furkids a few times, walking through the maze of rooms and options, which only left me overwhelmed. Honestly, I was a little afraid to even touch them.

I tried conversing a little.

“Well hello. How are you?”

Awkward. Completely.

Somehow, I ended up chatting up a little cow kitty and decided to ask the volunteer to scan her so I could read her profile. I was specifically looking for an independent broad who might sometimes sit beside me and allow a small pet.

As I turned around looking for the volunteer, there was the terrible sound of a cat fight behind me. Terrified, I turned back to see if my cow kitty was involved. She was not. She was just settling back down in her place.

After she was scanned, I was given a copy of her profile and took it home to think about it.

I learned that she was a hurricane rescue and wanted to be an only child.

Then I noticed something most interesting.

She had a pink nose.

Hmmm.

I went back to my phone and pulled up the photo of the cow kitty I had been talking to.

Black nose.

The disturbance I heard was Nana telling the black-nose kitty to vacate that seat, because a scanner was on the way and that meant she was going home, so kindly get out of her way.

What can I say?

I took her home.

Lo and behold, it wasn’t long before I learned my independent broad was a lap kitty. And apparently, the universe knew she was exactly what I needed.

Nana has proven herself to be the best companion.

She is the mouthiest cat I’ve ever been around, but she always greets me at the door when I come home from the office.

I credit her with telling me Alby was a keeper. She was head over heels for him while I was still saying, “Pump the brakes.”

I saw her sorrow when he was ill, and when he passed, she crawled into bed and spooned with me.

She is nine years old now. She was almost one when I got her.

She’s not so much a lap kitty anymore as a surly teenager who body-slams me and then just stays there with her butt pressed up against me. But she still has those tender moments when she crawls up my chest and touches her paw to my face.

Don’t let that fool you.

When it comes to food, dining service is demanded on her schedule. I have learned she tells time quite well in the morning, insisting I wake up within seconds of my alarm going off.

Nana is full of bad habits.

Pet me. Yes. Yes. Yes.

BITE.

I said enough.

It is hard to trim her nails without drawing blood.

Mine.

She has found the intrigue of ribbon and swallowed it on three different occasions.

She is my Nana Boo, and every day as I go to work, I tell her:

“See you later, Boo. You’re in charge.”