Three weeks ago this Saturday I went to the Toronto Humane Society to adopt a cat. I’d spent the previous week telling everyone in my life that I wanted an adult cat that liked to be picked up and cuddled to excess. After spending two heartbreaking hours at the shelter I left with a seven year old cat so anti-social that she had been deemed special needs. Her name was Chiclet, and she’d been in the shelter for just over a year. Within hours of getting her home it became obvious that much of her behaviour was a symptom of her surroundings and I was so glad that I hadn’t let her there for another day.
Now her name is Winona, and her hobbies include looking cute and being in charge of everything. She still doesn’t really like to be picked up, but she sleeps in my bed next to me and isn’t shy about demanding chin scratches.