I wanted a cat. When I was a kid, we had outdoor cats that had wire hair and skinny tails and always seemed to be ugly, bony males, so I wanted a soft, cute, female one.
I knew you got them at the animal pound in the city where I then lived. Because I approach things cautiously, I went to the library and checked out cat books.
The authors all said never to get the cat that cowers at the back of the cage. They'll never make a good pet. They'll hide from you, run from everything, and never chase a toy.
Okay. I'll keep that in mind, I thought. Good advice.
I already had a name for my kitten. I did want a kitten, and it had to be at least 8 weeks old, the books said, before being taken from its mother, and a 2 month old kitten is really young, so that's what I wanted.
The name had come to me weeks earlier while waiting in the car outside a mall.
Mitsy. My mind kept saying Mitsy.
At the pound, there were so many cats and kittens behind bars that it broke my heart. I wanted them all. Every one of them was beautiful - even the males.
Black, white, gray, tabby, Persian... Lots of kittens, too.
In one cage, there were two ginger tabbies and one gray cat. The sign said two males and one female (one of the tabbies).
The clerk said that the female tabby was the tiny one.
Oh-oh.
That was the one cowering at the back of the cage.
Her brother and the gray kitten were right up front, doing everything they could to get my attention.
But the female was at the back, cowering.
Okay - look around some more. For ten long minutes.
Nope. I wanted that ginger one.
Foolishly, I said, "I want that one at the back of the cage, please."
I filled out the paperwork, answered a lot of questions, paid my check, and waited.
She was so tiny sitting curled up on the male clerk's hand, and I asked if he was sure she was 8 weeks old and he said yes.
Mitsy came home with me in a box, peeking up through the lid to look around at her new and exciting world with huge green and yellow eyes.
"You won't be shy on me now, will you, Mitsy?" I asked her.
She ignored me.
I had a litter box on the kitchen floor, so I set her on it, and she did her business. Then she got off and explored, and ended up behind the stove, shaking like a leaf.
Great.
It took me an hour of soft talking and a piece of cheddar to coax the cowerer out from behind that tiny hiding place. I immediately blocked it off with a tall trash can.
She slept in a bed in the kitchen so the big house wouldn't hurt or frighten her, and the next morning, she was raring to go.
Everything was great, until a few days later, I realized she didn't know how to wash herself - had never even heard of it.
And she started to smell.
I figured her mother hadn't had a chance to teach her.
I figured Mitsy was a whole lot younger than 8 weeks old.
I knew not to wash her, to give her time and let the instinct to wash herself kick in.
But in the meantime?
Phew!
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