She was a showgirl…
OK, that’s probably not true, considering we found her at the animal shelter and not in an alley behind Caesar’s Palace lying in a bed made out of used pasties and rhinestone-encrusted thongs. But trust me, she’s definitely cute enough to be a showgirl. And I’m talking high-end casino showgirl, too, not cruise ship showgirl where you don’t even need all of your front teeth to be a headliner.
(Idea: Train cats to perform “A Chorus Line.” Get rich. Buy mansion in Jamaica. Leg-warmer wearing cats sign multimillion dollar deal with Purina and cut all ties. Die alone.)
Unlike her namesake, she ate the yellow feathers I put in her
hair and peed on her dress cut down to there.
“Hey, just wait a goshdarn second! She’s not an orange tabby!” you’re all probably yelling at your computers right about now. Or at least you are according to my strange mental disorder that leads me to believe that thousands of people around the world are deeply invested in my kitten choices.
Allow me to essplain.
Monday night we went to the shelter to pick up the orange tabby we had put a hold on, only to find out that she wasn’t allowed to go home for a few more days due to some lingering health issues. We said we were happy to wait for her, but as we were getting ready to leave, we heard a loud “meow” and a clunk. We turned around and saw a little furface clinging to the wire door of her cage, desperately trying to get our attention. She gazed at us with big green eyes and then started purring loud enough to hear over the dogs barking in another room.
“Uh-oh, looks like someone wants to adopt you,” I said to the completely charmed boys.
Suckers that we are, we immediately gave into the kitten’s quite impressive salesmanship and took her into one of the shelter’s Meet ‘n Greet rooms where she played like she was competing to win a gold medal in the 2012 “Yarn Ball Destruction” event. Then, when we were nearly 100% smitten with her, she climbed my leg and contentedly curled up in my lap.
“They must teach kittens the ABC rule here,” Chris said. “Always Be Closing. That feline’s a mondo playa.”
“Please don’t talk street,” I muttered to him while I debated what we should do. On the one hand, the orange girl tabby was soft, sweet and completely adorable. But on the other hand, this kitten—while not the cutest we’d ever seen—was the perfect combination of playful and snuggly, and she also had a wild spirit about her. A spirit that reminded me of a calico that I used to know. A calico who lived for 19 1/2 beautiful years.
I went to the front desk where Chad, the exhausted volunteer, told me the orange tabby had quite a few people interested in taking her. “What about the calico?” I asked. “Does anyone want to adopt her?”
“No,” he answered as she stared intently at us from her cage. “And she’s already been here a month.”
Five minutes later, she was on my lap and we were on the freeway heading home. She purred the entire way.
She has a shaved belly! Just like Billy Ray Cyrus!
A huge “thank you” to all of you for the fabulous name suggestions. My family and I loved reading all of them and they definitely would have worked perfectly well for either cat. (Or the imaginary friend I plan to have when I’m in the nursing home.) But we ultimately decided to call her “Lola” (which a few of you suggested) because what else would you all expect from a rapidly aging Fanilow Cat Lady? I think Barry would be pleased.
Anyway, no more cat stories for awhile. I promise I’ll now move on to something more exciting—like maybe laundry stories! Or grocery shopping stories! Or stories about my brain cells being cooked in the 90 degree heat! Hooray! (And Jeanne Flynn, please email me your address so I can send you a special something that’s definitely not Pokemon cards and my old Spanx. Are you allergic to latex?)