Yesterday I walked into the living room and found Amelia sitting on my writing chair. She looked so much like a little person that I burst out laughing. Then I took this picture.
Amelia was a Christmas gift from a friend in December of 2001. A tiny ball of fluff, I carried her home zipped into my coat. For the first few weeks we were together I brought her everywhere. I couldn’t tell if she was a boy or a girl, so I called her Claw, because of the way her cactus claws gleamed white against her coal black fur. She was so young that mostly what she did was sleep, which is why she stayed so happily in my coat, nuzzled against my beating heart.
She’s the least demanding of all four animals, and the most ignored. We get our quality time together in the early morning light, mug of coffee warm nearby, her round belly in my lap while she purrs like a chainsaw, twisting her body under my hands so I’ll scratch here, no there, right there, that’s perfect.
Amelia is the animal that long-time friends ask after. She’s the one who comforted me through every college heartbreak, who welcomed Toby home when he was adopted, who slept tucked under my chin until I married my love and his allergies. She’s also the cat who ate my eighty dollar laptop cord, several sets of headphones, various connection chords, stereo chords, component chords, destroyed our first sofa (with Theo’s help) and eats all of our houseplants down to nubs. It’s a good thing she’s so pretty.