I see such grace upon each face.
Some always get along.
They sing with purrs, in snores, the cure!
Peace, such a blessed song.
Tinkerbell was sent to the bench this afternoon for a two minute time out.
She was caught playing ruff while participating in some chihuahua games with chi brother Rex in the snow filled backyard.
My girl moved to the snow belt just last year from sunny California and still has much to learn about snow forts and snowballs.
When her time out was up, I gave Tink a treat and told her she was the sweetest little snow angel.
I think I caught her smiling.
But I know it was the rawhide.
The sweet gray cat had been in the shelter longer than the rest.
She’d been dismissed by all who walked by, just because she’d been labeled.
That is except for one kind man who was gently scratching her chin as I walked into the cat room.
Though only four years old, Misty had already lived two prior lives according to her records.
And she’d also spent time at this shelter before.
It seems Misty was originally adopted by a family when she was just a kitten. But they brought her back when they moved to an apartment that didn’t allow pets.
Still last year fortunately she did find another home.
Yet Misty was brought back to the shelter once again after her second owners reported she had a “litter box issue.”
“And you know what that means,” the kind man in the cat room said slowly.
‘It’s definitely the kiss of death’ he hinted while shaking his head as he read me the rest of her chart.
“Oh, but she she seems like such a sweet cat,” he added.
I nodded in agreement then joined in on the scratch fest, finding Misty’s sweet spot right behind her little left ear.
I’ve heard litter box issues are one of the most common reasons for surrendering a cat to a shelter.
Though I’ve also heard it’s often used only as an excuse.
More than a few little kittens have been given as gifts to people who never imagined themselves becoming owners of big adult cats, or quite accepting of the fact that felines do require regular care and maintenance.
“Was this the situation with Misty?” I asked one of the workers at the shelter.
“Well, what we do know is she came here right after Christmas and hasn’t had one accident in the six weeks since.”
I had no intentions this year of replacing my hospice cat, Mr. Bojangles, who peacefully left this world back in January.
But I admit I do like to give two legged and four legged friends second chances.
And in some special cases, even a third.
As soon as Misty lifted her head and gave me that ‘take a chance on me’ look, the rest is history.
And though our history’s just three weeks old, I’m happy to report that so far it’s been absolutely purr-fect.
Today was our 24th morning with below zero temps.
The weather’s getting old, both for me and my handsome man Rex.
Midwestern winters can get a lot worse than this one, still we both knew we needed to shake off our sour attitudes some.
Rex grabbed his napping brother Tucker’s letter jacket for an early Valentine’s date at our favorite coffee and crepe shop.
We immediately knew we’d scored a win as we walked in the door and smelled the sweet scents from the oven.
Though my glasses were steamed up as I approached the counter, I could see there was one chocolate chip cookie left just for us though Rex preferred the long, thin crispy wafer that came with our cappuccino.
Rex was attracting more than a few smiles in spite of a mohawk that’s gone radically rogue. In fact, I even thought I caught him winking back at a couple of stylish young ladies at the next table glancing his direction.
But then a slightly older, smiling woman walked up to us and said, “Oh, but I can tell he’s a good boy. In fact, a VERY good boy! I can see it in his eyes.”
Suddendly Rex looked up at me for a moment and gave me some sweet and gentle kisses on my hand.
I warmly nodded at the woman and told her, “Oh, yes. This loving Valentine is most definitely a winner.”
Junie B. was busy finding her place in the sun on this frigid morning as I announced, “It’s Groundhog Day.”
“And it seems Puxatony Phil’s expecting 6 more weeks of winter.”
I detected a tiny growl.
“Hey, that’s not so bad,” I added. “The local weather man is actually predicting another 8 to 12!”
With that, Junie B. jumped off her perch and made a fast retreat back under the thick blankets atop her dog bed.
My girl knows a long winter’s nap cures most everything up here in the midwest.
Even a case of the blues.