Hello, dear friends. There is a new love in my life, and as such, a formal introduction is in order.
Meet Miles Davis.
He is fluffy.
He is curious.
He is regal.
He has resting bitch face (see above).
Here’s the story:
Miles had been in the shelter since last November and was, in the words of the volunteers, “shutting down.” When I went to visit, they told me he probably wouldn’t come out of his cubby, and that he might swat at me if I tried to pet him. He did.
As a child, I adopted a cat that was similarly fearful in the shelter. He yowled and cried and wouldn’t come out from underneath the chairs. Within 24 hours of being home, he was lounging on the beds like he owned the place. Of all the pets I've ever owned, he was far and away the most loving.
So last Tuesday I sat a respectful distance from Miles for a while, and tried to level with myself. I said, “Kate, cats have personalities. There is no guarantee that Miles will warm up. He might be a grumpy, crotchety old cat forever. Are you willing to take care of him, even if he doesn’t snuggle you?”
The answer was “No.”
I got him anyway.
I don’t know. I just had a feeling about him. (#INFJprobs)
When I got home, I walked up to my room, opened his carrier, and sat down on my bed to wait.
Not more than six minutes later, his little black face peeked up over the top of the bed. He jumped up into my lap, and started to purr.
And that is the beautiful, unadulterated truth.
I emailed the SPCA somewhere in the neighborhood of 45 pictures - of Miles, the cranky cat that refused to come out of his cubby, snuggling and purring like he'd lived here all along. Miles Davis is evidence that home matters. Home can heal.
Miles is 8 years old, which is middle-aged for a cat. If he were a man he would have amazing salt-and-pepper hair. He is wonderfully calm. Not meddlesome, no drama. He is affectionate and grateful, and has a jazzy, raspy little meow.
And that is the story of Miles Davis.
Also, look at his tail. (!!!)
