Yesterday, the girls and I adopted a cat. This cat:
He’s four months old, a domestic shorthair that the shelter named “Dusty”. None of us were impressed by that name, so once I convinced Linnea that “Lagloobadoll” wasn’t a valid name for anything, much less a pet, she suggested we call him “Charlie”, which I thought was fabulous.
He is a very sweet boy. Pretty mellow. Rode all the way home in his little carrier without making a peep even once, only taking time to occasionally touch the finger I had shoved through one of the holes so he’d know he wasn’t alone. He’s got this great, deep, rumbling purr that sounds like it should belong in a cat about four times his size. Sarah calls him “My Chaw-wee”, and is already quite devoted to him. Linnea has cleaned the litterbox every single time he’s used it (yeah, that won’t last long). Even my mom and dad seem to be getting attached to the little tyke.
The shelter folks were SO excited that we picked him out. He’d been there since April, and I wanted to ask them why, but then decided: don’t care. If he’s a problem cat, we’ll find out soon enough. But nearly 24-hours in: I think he was just waiting for us.