“What about this one?” I asked, depositing a quiet, diminutive calico into her arms. Mom lowered her face to ‘Mia,’ who raised hers with unbridled affection and began to purr against her chest.
“I think this is the one,” Mom announced, looking down into the dearest amber eyes. “Would you like to come home with me, little puss? Would you like me to be your new mommy?”
Mia did indeed go home with Mom. She’s entirely unsuitable: not an older cat at all, in fact, probably around a year and recently spayed. She would melt any dog lover’s heart and having lived in crowded conditions for the past two months, is delighted to be roaming Mom’s apartment which, comparatively, must feel as though she’s moved into a Walmart.
“I think I was given the wrong cat,” said Mom, this morning, during our phone call. “This one won’t stop tearing around the house!”
“The folks at the shelter said it would take about a week for her to settle in,” I reminded her. “Plus, she’s young. Time to dig out all of Chloe’s old toys for her.”
“Oh! she’s just attacked the newspaper!”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I hope I don’t die and depress her.”
“I hope you don’t die, either.”
A pause. And then,
“She really is a dear little thing.”
Of course she is.