It's a rainy day at the farmette. Looks like evening outside, although it's morning.
Given that yesterday was Black Cat Day, I thought I'd do a wee tribute to our almost-black cat Wilma.
Wilma came into our lives in November, 2019. I was stringing up Christmas lights on the deck and Rob was working in the garage. A wee tiny tortoiseshell kitty showed up and was eating the suet that had fallen on the ground from the bird feeder above.
At the same time, a beautiful grey tabbie with white fur was wandering around the premises mooching for food as well. He was a pudding and eventually became our Fred.
Wilma was a completely different story. She was a virago from the get-go. Still is, almost five years later.
First of all, she hid herself in the rafters of the toolshed. Rob had to wrestle with her to get her to come down. Then, when it came time to take both kittens to the vet to get them fixed up, she was having none of it. We had quarantined both of them in our woodworking shop. This was to protect the three felines we already had from whatever they might be carrying.
She would come out at feeding time, and to nap in her Amazon box, but otherwise would have nothing to do with us. We spent a good hour or so ripping the shop apart trying to get her cornered enough to get her in the carrier for the trip.
She has maintained her distance through the years, although she's developed a shoe fetish and can often be found in the mud room canoodling with Rob's Slip-Ins.
She also loves a head rub, and occasionally presents her tummy for a good pet. But not if she thinks she's headed for the V-E-T.
Unlike with the other four felines, we can't trim her nails, so have had to resort to the blood-letting (ours) that occurs getting her to the you-know-what so the technician can do it. She's so terrified about the whole experience that it's actually not a difficult task, once we're at the office.
We hate putting her and us through that, so have decided to resort to calming drugs (for Wilma) for the next trimming session at home. Here's hoping.
Wilma has decided she's in love with Hobbes, our eldest male, and tends to piss him off with her amorous advances. He's pretty good natured about it all, and just gives a wee swipe if she becomes too much.
Anyway. Somebody obviously didn't want either her or Fred. And we're just as happy they didn't, because we love them. Blood letting and all. Until next week.
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