Meet Elliot
Last week I did what you all suggested: I went to the local animal shelter and picked out an adorable kitty. I didn’t head in looking for any particular characteristics (beyond wanting an animal past kitten-stage… everyone is willing to adopt kittens), I figured I’d play with a few and see if I got on well with any of them. There was one particularly-needy-looking little domestic short hair, Elliot, on their website, but I didn’t really expect the site to be up-to-date. Better to just go and look around.
A volunteer at the desk points me to a door and says, “Just go ahead. Find one to fall in love with.” As soon as I open the door, this raspy yowl is let loose from the cage on the lower-right. I’ve lived with chatterbox cats before, and they’re cute, but this guy… this guy did not sound cute. Picture what copious amount of whiskey and cigarettes could do to a cat’s voice, a feline variant of a smokey jazz pianist; that’s what this little fellow sounded like.
So I pass him by and check out the top row, where some truly beautiful kitties were lazily playing, batting at my arms or at each other. I’m reading the names on each cage, wondering if Elliot is still there. I’m a tad disappointed when this beautiful tuxedo-coated cat that’s been vying for my attention turns out to be not-him (a her, in fact, though I can’t recall the name now), but she’s cute and lively ,so I take her out of the cage and she doesn’t claw or bite, and I’m thinking, “Hrmm… this one could be perfect.”
Meanwhile the relentless pleas from whiskey-cat have taken on a hint of desperation: “You are not paying attention to me!” he cried. “Not even a little bit!” So I kneel down to take a closer look at him, and he immediately shuts up and starts nuzzling the cage door as hard as he could. I put a hand through the bars to scratch his head, but can’t maintain for long because kitty starts rolling over himself in ecstasy (judging from the amount and quality of purring emanating from his tiny little self). OK, so this guy seems to need a home desperately. I open his cage and he bolts straight into my lap, starts climbing over my shoulders, still purring like a V8, and I notice his name tag. Elliot, domestic short hair, male, rescued Feb 2009, age approx 1 yr. I gently put him back in his cage, where he once again let out that bizarre meow of his, and went to the desk to tell them I found one I want.
So! That was just over a week ago. Elliot’s adjusting to his new home pretty well. He’s not nearly as vocal as when we first met, but when he does have something to say, I’ve started to find that raspy meow rather endearing. He’s beginning to learn his boundaries (e.g., he can sit and walk on things that I also sit and walk on. NOT COFFEE TABLES. etc.), and he’s stunningly playful. Seriously. Everything is a game to him. He even wowed the vet and her staff by showing no fear and insisting they play fetch with him. And for all his energy, by the end of the day, he’s perfectly content to curl into a little ball beside me while I read. Or hack. Or play guitar. Or sip martinis and watch old movies. He doesn’t care. He is perfect.
