Life

The Lill

She had us marked from the moment we walked over to her cage at the D.C. Animal Shelter a year ago. She rubbed herself against the bars, back and forth, itching for some attention.

“You can hold her if you want,” the volunteer said, “but she doesn’t like it when I pick her up.”

Leslye took the cat from the volunteer and held her in her arms. The cat didn’t struggle or complain – actually, she looked ready to take a nap. We exchanged smiles and decided that this one, called Tiger, would be our new kitty – despite our intentions to adopt an older, possibly plumper male cat when we arrived.

A few days later Leslye went to pick her up and bring her home. She had been fixed and probably was a little out of sorts, but she endured the ride across town fairly well, I was told. From there things went a little south: she jumped from the cat carrier placed on our bed and scrambled underneath the heater. Neither of us would have thought that a cat could fit in that space, but she somehow wedged herself into the dusty compartment and was not coming out. Not an auspicious beginning.

She stayed there the first night, refusing our entreaties of milk and food. She had a gravel-voiced response to any attempt to move her. In the morning, Leslye worried that she wouldn’t come out. “Of course she’ll come out,” I said. And then, after Leslye left for work, I reached into the compartment and brought the cat out, much to her dismay.

She was very dirty from her overnight stay. And scared. So I put her back in the cat carrier while I grabbed a damp towel and some cat treats. I wiped her off a bit and she ate some of the treats, still wild-eyed. Then, when I held open the lid to the cat carrier, she jumped out and promptly ran under the bed – I had boarded up the heater.

For the better part of two weeks she lived under the bed, coming out late at night to eat and (thankfully) to use the litter box. She was scared, sure, but she had manners. Our other cat, The Tuna, was little help. Curious about the interloper, she gave her little or no space when she ventured out from under the bed. There was hissing.

Still, she seemed to like human laps. The instant she could, she’d hop on ours and sit. Sometimes she’d purr. But when she’d had enough, a quick retreat to her lair often was preceeded by that gravely meow and a harmless swipe of her paw.

Did I mention the paws? They’re huge. She has all five toes down on the end of her paw, making them look more like catcher’s mitts (later on, we agreed that “Mitt” might have been a good name for her). When walking around the house, her paws make a bit of noise (pad-pad-pad).

Tiger didn’t seem like the name we wanted to keep, though, so we cast around for others. I had started calling her Tiger Lily, which morphed into The Lill. She’s not exactly best friends with her adopted sister, but in the year we’ve had her she has proven to be a loving, if occasionally grouchy, kitty. Although she might get a little grouchier once she realizes that the impending arrival of Baby 1.0 might mean less lap time.