We didn’t know, when we found this cat in a Wendy’s parking lot in Lakeland five years ago, that her flat-cut ear meant she was part of a cared-for feral colony.
Apparently, the ear cut means she’s had her shots, she’s spayed, and she should be left alone, as she’s also wild.
But she jumped into our car with a cheeseburger lure, and she sat on my lap back to Sarasota.
She’s not sat on a lap since.
When we got home that night, she became the “upstairs cat” at our rented, two-story condo, too scared to venture down into the family chaos.
Soon, we moved to Shady Brook Lane, and missing a good place to hide, she was present more often, mostly at night, when she’d sometimes let Thomas pet her — but only after children were asleep.
I often felt badly for bringing her into our loud house. I can’t blame her for keeping her distance. A lot of days, I don’t want to live here, either.
In recent weeks, though, months into the pandemic that’s cooped us into this house more than we’d like, she’s gotten closer to us, instead of running away. She’s started meowing at me, purring and allowing pets. She drools when she purrs.
Just today, she jumped up into my chair, and bumped me over, squeezing into the gap between my leg and the chair’s arm.
Hey, Wendy, welcome. My lap is still waiting for you, but you can sit next to me any time.
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