I was vaguely planning on doing an outfit post, but then I saw the Photo Gallery theme on Sticky Fingers this week was “pets,” and what do you know, I happened to take a good dozen pictures of mine today! I don’t actually go after him with my camera (anymore), but I spent most of my morning taking pictures of things, and he spent most of his morning trying to leap onto the shelf behind my desk chair. (He succeeded. Twice. Once I was around to get him down; the second time I was out ordering prints and accidentally buying two pairs of flats, and I came home to see my shelf mirror lying on the floor. Miracle that it was intact given it fell down four shelves and two drawers.)
So, my cat: his name is Oxford, he’s a common house cat as far as I know, and on September 19th I will have had him for a whole two years.
Long story short, I’ve always wanted a cat (or a snake, but I don’t think I could raise live mice to feed them to another animal anyway), but my sister is allergic to fur, so it was out of the question. But then my sister got it in her head that she wanted a pet, and she got a chicken. And that was fine for the summer, when he could be out in the patio, but when winter came, we had nowhere for him to live. So off the chicken (who my sister named Stuart after finding out it was male, but who will remain Stella in my heart forevermore) went… and my sister wanted a pet again.
This was on the backburner for a bit, and then my mom made the mistake of telling us someone she knew had a cat who’d recently given birth and was giving her kittens up for adoption. I mean, I can’t imagine she hadn’t already counted on us latching onto the idea right away, because hello, I have always wanted a cat, and I was pretty sure we could more or less afford to keep one now – including the anti-allergen medication so my sister wouldn’t, like, die or anything.
So, on September 19th, my mom came home with the cutest, tiniest, most elusive little furball in her hands. Said furball promptly hid behind one of my bookshelves. My sister and I named him Oxford over lunch, because he reminded me of Oxford shoes and somehow that was the only name nobody vetoed. He could have been a Copenhagen. In retrospect, that would have been weird.
Oxford still enjoys hiding from me, and running away from me, and generally being baffled and also horrified by my interest in squeezing him. He also sleeps on my bed on a nightly basis, though, so he’s obviously not that scared. He sleeps a lot, he eats a lot, he meows a lot, he hunts down bugs and bats but doesn’t kill them in case he can torture them some more, and he’s so lazy he plops down on the floor every five seconds… even when you’re about to kick the ball the other way so he’ll run after it. He likes his litter box perfumed and rejects any other sand. He likes to snack on my mom’s jasmine plant, which does not seem to help his awful shrimp breath one bit. And he’s my baby.
So I have a cat. My sister insists it’s her cat and Oxford himself would probably go after the person who feeds him and never bothers him on purpose (short of trying to hose him down every day for fun), i.e. my mom. But that’s not the point. The point is I have a cat. He’s a kitty! A furry little asshole kitty. And he’s pretty much stuck with me for life.