When I was 11 or so my father married his longtime girlfriend, Jill, or ‘Lil Toot as we called her. Hey, she made the mistake of sharing that story. When she moved in she brought a black and white, short haired kitty named Paris.
Fortunate for Paris, the custody battle only granted me three weekends a month with my dad. Even still, Paris tolerated more than any cat should. I was not malicious or anything, I just played with her like she was my friend. And she put up with it. She put up with me.
Here’s Paris waiting to be wheeled around the house in a toy grocery cart. Imagine a white, hand-knit hat atop her head—sadly missing during the photo op.
As Paris and I aged it became clear that if I were to own a cat it would have to be one just like her. It would need the temperament of a saint and unsurpassed tolerance. But those attributes don’t typically grace cats.
The kitten I adopted has lived up to the Paris standard. Even though he’s named after a fictitious planet, kPax is the best kitty on earth. I know, he’s only on loan here. I tried using the name Paris on him one day, just to see. He didn’t respond. Then again, he doesn’t really respond to kPax either. It might be interference . . . you know, from the mother ship—static so loud he can't hear us, his host family.