Last weekend, as my Facebook friends already know, I went out for groceries. But I came home with a kitten.
I dragged the family out of the house on a drizzly afternoon on a vain quest for specialty cheeses. Yet, the first shop we stepped into was a pet store.
On the walk home, we start throwing names at her, to see what would stick. Helena tried Rose (and, with a chuckle, the names of other of the Doctor's companions: Martha, Donna, Sarah Jane). Luna feels right for about 20 minutes. J-F and I don't offer many counter-suggestions (we like "Luna," and it seems right that the naming should fall to the girl). Within the hour, however, "Rosie" seems to be settled. (Never mind the doll and the 2 or 3 stuffed animals who already bear that name.)
She is now known variously, by Helena, as Rosie Benigni and Rosie the Pony. I call her Rosie Gattaca, for her genetically superior cuteness. J-F calls her Stapler, for the way you can casually swipe her up off the table and pass her to whoever asks for her. Today Helena called her Lollipop.
It's hard to gauge her size from this photo, but that bundle of cuteness can just about squeeze herself into my size 8 sneaker. She has a shoe fetish to rival my own.
She is the family cat. (Calvino, on the other hand, was my cat, long before I considered family.) And yet — naming aside, with whatever rights of ownership that go along with it — she feels like mine. I picked her, out of the dozen behind glass. She sleeps on my pillow. She jumps over my stacks of books, and stretches out across whatever novel I may have open in front of me. (Maybe I want her to be mine more than I care to admit; maybe I need her to be mine.)
She is adorable.
She chases her tail and plays with her shadow. She somersaults. She carries her toy mouse in her mouth, gingerly and proudly. We have yet to determine if she is the sort of cat who prefers toilet paper rolls over crumpled-up wads of paper (I think she is).
We are overdosing on cuteness. She is seriously, too, too cute. I mean, even her poo is cute. It's all just so disgustingly cute.
That first night, I feared that her purr was broken. But then suddenly it came, deep and constant. Rosie is here to stay.