I know you were all waiting on tenterhooks for April’s cat of the month, and it never came. Sorry! I’ve just been swamped with projects, and my regularly scheduled cat story just got away from me. In fact, I'm barely squeezing this in before the end of May. We’re not to the end of the cats yet, no no, I’ve plenty more up my sleeve.
But on to Annie, the last of the California (and even American) cats.
Annie was our little old granny cat. We went back to Pet Pride for a companion for Man-O-War, and in spite of thinking we wanted a younger cat, this petite charmer just stole our hearts. She was at least 12; they weren’t really sure. And tiny! I’d never seen such a miniscule adult cat. She was a sort of pastel tortoiseshell, as if they had tried to bleach all the color out and left just a hint. Her personality was a soft and rich but subtle and low-key as her fur.
She did like to play, daintily, without running back and forth across the house like a crazy fool. She took care of Man’, listening to his stories and grooming him and watching his antics. Never raised her voice, or objected to the excesses of youth.
Annie didn’t like to be picked up, preferring to slide quietly onto a lap in her own time. So we never picked her up much. And thus we didn’t discover that she had breast cancer until too late. Yes, cats get breast cancer too.
But what a sweetheart!