It’s been a while since I last reminded you of the fact that cats are the best. And since it’s Caturday, here’s the history of how I met my cat. It’s a lengthy, convoluted and boring story with several false starts. You have been warned.
I first found myself in a regular proximity with a cat when I moved in a house which came with a black panther. At least I thought it was a dwarf panther, but on closer examination, it turned out to be a huge black cat. On an even closer examination, it turned out to be two cats which looked alike. Soon, one of the cats went to Tahiti. That’s a local saying meaning he disappeared for good. The other cat remained but resisted all my attempts to become friends.
Since the in-stock cat wouldn’t have me, I got myself a spare cat. It was a super cute multi-colour kitty. She was alright as long as she was young and dumb, but then, under the adversarial influence of the unfriendly panther cat, she became a feral wild thing. She would only let me hold her as long as I was feeding her ham. Before she managed to grow up, she got herself run over by a car. That much to me having a kitten.
A few years later, I got a replacement cat. I got to pick her from a new litter. There were only black-and-whites and tabbies. I didn’t particularly fancy any of those, but I half-heartedly selected a brownish tabby. I wasn’t too impressed. I called her Ella. Ella wasn’t too impressed either. She spent the first few weeks sitting at the doorstep and meowing plaintively. And then we somehow grew on each other.
Meanwhile, Ella has become five, has moved with me twice and has become my bestie. She’s a pretty average cat, but she has a bunch of redeeming features. She’s affectionate but not annoying, doesn’t mind it when I don’t mind her and can be left home alone for up to two nights. Though she’s always pissed off when I dare leave her for too long. Right now, she’s sleeping curled up on my yoga mat. It was third time the charm.