Six years ago, an enormous orange kitty showed up in our backyard. Within a few weeks, it was apparent that he really was a stray, and it came to be that the enormous orange kitty (named Julian by my son) became part of our household.
Our then-12-year-old teeny-weeny gray tabby female, Miranda, was NOT amused. Julian, a young guy, thought she was a toy. She dashed away from him; he chased. There was much hissing and spitting on her part. It took a long time, but they eventually arrived at food bowl détente, but, otherwise, she couldn’t stand to be around him.
Miranda was never a cuddly kitty. Physical contact was on her terms alone. She hated being petted. If she felt like attention, she demanded it with head-butting. And if you responded to the head-butting by trying to pet her, you were likely to be rewarded by a chomp or a swat.
As she has aged, she’s undergone a personality shift. She’s become a very insistent lap kitty. And she’s slowly shifted from finding Julian to be her nemesis to considering him to be an annoying pain in the ass.
She’s now 18, and this very evening, Julian was behaving like a total jerk and chasing her every time she moved.
So imagine my utter astonishment to see this. Julian had curled up on the sofa, and then Miranda jump up and curled up beside him.
An 18-year-old cat is on her ninth life, I reckon. If she can spend it choosing to curl up with the bad boy when she feels like it, and choosing to smack him on the snoot when she feels like it, I say,“You go, girl!”