My name is Chloe and I live at the animal shelter. Someday, I hope to meet a thoughtful, considerate person such as yourself. Meanwhile, I groom myself and rest.
Marianne wrote a description of me and clipped it to the front of my unit, blocking me from view. You may as well read it.
“Chloe is a sweet, placid, adorable old thing, a classic calico kitty with splotches of orange, white and chocolate in her fur. She loves to sit in the window and watch the world go by, or sit in your lap and purr, or just sit and meditate. So much contemplation has made her wise beyond her years. She is about twelve years old, and lived with an elderly lady who took loving care of her. Definitely an indoor cat, Chloe is in excellent health, has had all her shots, and is spayed. She may be a little overweight from lack of exercise, but if you play with her, she will quickly shed those pounds! She loves to romp with a sensitive, gentle adult. Chloe might not do well with rambunctious children or a household that already has a dog. And she has not lived with other cats, so it is hard to say if she would make friends. She is a furred person singular, as pretty as a picture, and eager to make your acquaintance.”
I could take issue with “splotches.” Let’s just say that Marianne writes hundreds of cat bios. They feed us well here, that fancy scientific chow, so it’s possible that I gained a pound or two. They keep us in these steel-barred units and give us one exercise period a day, like jailbirds, so that’s another factor. But the part about children and other animals—Marianne nailed that one.
The elderly lady was carried out feet first. Her name was Ruthie or Mrs. Garrison, depending on her mood. I was resting with my eyes closed, when I heard a crash. I yawned, then strolled over to investigate. Ruthie lay crumpled on the floor, clutching a watering can with a long skinny spout. Maybe she was trying to reach the spider plant and lost her balance. Maybe she tripped. The place was littered throw rugs and carpet samples with frayed edges, great for digging in your claws but not exactly Metropolitan Home décor. I lay next to her for a while, then went back to my warm spot.
Fortunately, they checked on Ruthie once a day. She was still breathing. They asked her questions like “What year is this?” and “How many fingers am I holding up?” Then they strapped her on a gurney and took her away. The apartment manager called me “poor thing,” and picked up the watering can. Then she called the animal shelter and said she had an arrival. Maybe it was last week, or maybe it was months ago. I lose track of time in here.
Now that I’ve caught your attention, I’ll make a little effort. First, a good stretch, then a poised, seated posture. Ears forward, tip of tail vibrating to show interest. You can take me out of the cage and hold me. Ruthie liked to cradle me like a baby and sing hymns. It was a little bizarre, but I got used to it.
If you like, a staff member will escort us to the interview room. Wendell, not Marianne—today’s not her shift. It’s that room with the glass wall facing the lobby. See the rocking chair, the plush carpet, and the climbing contraption? You didn’t hear it from me, but it’s called a “feline environment.”
Easy does it as you lift me. I’m heavier than you expect. Wendell will come back in a few. Take your time. Did he just wink? Yes, you can close the door. I’m okay. Are you okay?
The toys are cute, but I’m not interested right now. The fuzzy ball, the string thing, the feathered birdie, the stuffed mouse. The mouse is okay—it squeaks when you bite hard. Once I got beyond kittenhood, I haven’t been big on toys.
Pet me all you want—I won’t break. Yes, that feels good. When I close my eyes and purr that means keep it up. You’ve been around cats, haven’t you? I can tell.
You can call me Chloe, but it’s not my real name. Marianne makes them up. Hundreds of them, whatever pops into her head. So you can change it. Just keep doing that thing with your fingers on my neck.
A little rocking chair time in your lap? Suits me fine. Oops, I didn’t mean to snag your sleeve with my claw. Sometimes they just stick out like that. I don’t do it on purpose or say: “Now I will extend my claw and rip that sucker to shreds.” It just happens, okay? You understand about accidents. Keep doing that massage thing and we’ll get along fine.
Wendell is knocking on the glass. He can be goofy, but he’s a good kid. And he knows cats.
Interview time is up? Okay, that’s cool. You want to adopt me? Really? Sure, I mean, yes, I mean, that’s cool.
Did you know that the animal shelter is running a special? Two for one or half price. Technically, they don’t sell cats—it’s an adoption fee. You just want one cat. That is totally okay with me. Fill out the paperwork, and pledge to treat me humanely. Sign your name where it says “parent.” Personal check, credit or debit card—they’re all good.
You brought your own pet carrier? Super! But wait, that’s not all. They give you a free bag of cat chow. It must be some promotional deal with the pet food company.
Do I want to say goodbye to the animal shelter staff? Not really. They’re okay, but enough is enough. I am totally ready to go home with you and live with you forever. That’s a long time, right?
Marianne wrote a description of me and clipped it to the front of my unit, blocking me from view. You may as well read it.
“Chloe is a sweet, placid, adorable old thing, a classic calico kitty with splotches of orange, white and chocolate in her fur. She loves to sit in the window and watch the world go by, or sit in your lap and purr, or just sit and meditate. So much contemplation has made her wise beyond her years. She is about twelve years old, and lived with an elderly lady who took loving care of her. Definitely an indoor cat, Chloe is in excellent health, has had all her shots, and is spayed. She may be a little overweight from lack of exercise, but if you play with her, she will quickly shed those pounds! She loves to romp with a sensitive, gentle adult. Chloe might not do well with rambunctious children or a household that already has a dog. And she has not lived with other cats, so it is hard to say if she would make friends. She is a furred person singular, as pretty as a picture, and eager to make your acquaintance.”
I could take issue with “splotches.” Let’s just say that Marianne writes hundreds of cat bios. They feed us well here, that fancy scientific chow, so it’s possible that I gained a pound or two. They keep us in these steel-barred units and give us one exercise period a day, like jailbirds, so that’s another factor. But the part about children and other animals—Marianne nailed that one.
The elderly lady was carried out feet first. Her name was Ruthie or Mrs. Garrison, depending on her mood. I was resting with my eyes closed, when I heard a crash. I yawned, then strolled over to investigate. Ruthie lay crumpled on the floor, clutching a watering can with a long skinny spout. Maybe she was trying to reach the spider plant and lost her balance. Maybe she tripped. The place was littered throw rugs and carpet samples with frayed edges, great for digging in your claws but not exactly Metropolitan Home décor. I lay next to her for a while, then went back to my warm spot.
Fortunately, they checked on Ruthie once a day. She was still breathing. They asked her questions like “What year is this?” and “How many fingers am I holding up?” Then they strapped her on a gurney and took her away. The apartment manager called me “poor thing,” and picked up the watering can. Then she called the animal shelter and said she had an arrival. Maybe it was last week, or maybe it was months ago. I lose track of time in here.
Now that I’ve caught your attention, I’ll make a little effort. First, a good stretch, then a poised, seated posture. Ears forward, tip of tail vibrating to show interest. You can take me out of the cage and hold me. Ruthie liked to cradle me like a baby and sing hymns. It was a little bizarre, but I got used to it.
If you like, a staff member will escort us to the interview room. Wendell, not Marianne—today’s not her shift. It’s that room with the glass wall facing the lobby. See the rocking chair, the plush carpet, and the climbing contraption? You didn’t hear it from me, but it’s called a “feline environment.”
Easy does it as you lift me. I’m heavier than you expect. Wendell will come back in a few. Take your time. Did he just wink? Yes, you can close the door. I’m okay. Are you okay?
The toys are cute, but I’m not interested right now. The fuzzy ball, the string thing, the feathered birdie, the stuffed mouse. The mouse is okay—it squeaks when you bite hard. Once I got beyond kittenhood, I haven’t been big on toys.
Pet me all you want—I won’t break. Yes, that feels good. When I close my eyes and purr that means keep it up. You’ve been around cats, haven’t you? I can tell.
You can call me Chloe, but it’s not my real name. Marianne makes them up. Hundreds of them, whatever pops into her head. So you can change it. Just keep doing that thing with your fingers on my neck.
A little rocking chair time in your lap? Suits me fine. Oops, I didn’t mean to snag your sleeve with my claw. Sometimes they just stick out like that. I don’t do it on purpose or say: “Now I will extend my claw and rip that sucker to shreds.” It just happens, okay? You understand about accidents. Keep doing that massage thing and we’ll get along fine.
Wendell is knocking on the glass. He can be goofy, but he’s a good kid. And he knows cats.
Interview time is up? Okay, that’s cool. You want to adopt me? Really? Sure, I mean, yes, I mean, that’s cool.
Did you know that the animal shelter is running a special? Two for one or half price. Technically, they don’t sell cats—it’s an adoption fee. You just want one cat. That is totally okay with me. Fill out the paperwork, and pledge to treat me humanely. Sign your name where it says “parent.” Personal check, credit or debit card—they’re all good.
You brought your own pet carrier? Super! But wait, that’s not all. They give you a free bag of cat chow. It must be some promotional deal with the pet food company.
Do I want to say goodbye to the animal shelter staff? Not really. They’re okay, but enough is enough. I am totally ready to go home with you and live with you forever. That’s a long time, right?
