I have so many posts & post ideas now that my third-party post is in the “done” column, but I really need this right now.
I’m sure very few people care about my cat. However, I promise some really fantastic cat pictures if you want to scroll down & skip my rambling.
When I moved out of my Dad’s house, I wanted to get a cat:
- An all black cat – because they’re less likely to be adopted, the first to be euthanized in shelters, & still have a horrible stigma of being “bad luck”
- To be named “Loki” (I didn’t have a gender preference, I merely picked a name based on the Norse G-d of Mischief & Lies)
- Adopted, not purchased
My ex-boyfriend/ex-husband (my life is a Jerry Springer episode) had an Uncle with a feral cat colony on his cow farm. It turns out, one of them had recently had a litter of kittens. They weren’t scared of humans yet, so we went to see them.
He who would ultimately be named “Loki” was the only one of three 8-week old kittens who didn’t run & hide. Instead, he investigated the giant hairless apes who entered the tiny barn stall in which he’d spent his whole life. I like to say this was his first – & last – brave act.
He’s a bit of a scaredy-cat. Seriously, this cat is afraid of string. But, I digress.
Eventually, when I spent four years wondering why I was in constant pain & my depression soared, Loki became my reason for sticking around. I had to care for him – feeding, vet visits, stealing his waste for no reason other than to piss him off.
My doctor helped me declare him an emotional support animal. This helps mostly with if I move somewhere where I’m not supposed to have pets. It also reminds me that he needs me.
My whole world is a whiny, attention-seeking, spoiled rotten, six-year-old black cat. At 16 pounds, he pushes me around like no one’s business.
Now, the pictures as promised:
I’ll get back to writing stuff tomorrow. Or, maybe Wednesday after the election. This week is an emotional s***-storm, so I needed to remind myself what my life means. If not for me, for him. ❤