When I came down south to live with family five years ago, I was looking forward to meeting Dixie the dog . . . and we quickly became good friends. The fact that she would also befriend Attila the Hun if he offered her snacks is irrelevant; all that matters is that she likes me.

I was not, however, prepared for the Cat. That’s “Cat,” with a capital “C.”

We are a family of animal lovers, so a resident feline wasn’t really going to be a problem . . . or so I thought. But I’m more of a dog person, and had never lived with a cat before, so there were bound to be some surprises. I just never anticipated having to deal with the Queen of Sheba.

To begin with, she doesn’t have a name. That’s because, when she was rescued from the local shelter years ago, my son decided there was no sense in naming someone who wouldn’t respond to being called under any circumstances — and he was right: she doesn’t. I call her “Miss Kitty,” but that’s more for my own sake than hers.

She’s an older cat, and mostly just lies around, or wanders about the house checking things out, having a little snack or a drink, and looking for her next resting spot. Trying to play with her is futile — she’s simply not interested, or too tired, or perhaps considers herself above such nonsense.

So when toys didn’t work, I began gently approaching her from time to time, ignoring her haughty expression, and letting her sniff my hand to become acquainted. And one glorious day, she allowed me to stroke her for just a few seconds before standing up and slinking away.

Whereas Dixie can never get enough love from her humans, I’ve learned that cats are much more protective of their personal space. And they make the rules as to when they may be approached. So when Miss Kitty signals that it’s all right, I am now allowed to give her a nice, gentle petting. And sometimes — when she’s in an extremely generous mood — I’ll even be honored with a tiny kitty kiss.

But she still won’t approach me. Sometimes she’ll wander into my den while I’m sitting here, but not to see me — merely to sniff around, checking things out, only to stroll out again without so much as a nod of acknowledgment.

And occasionally, I’ll spot her walking by and into my bedroom, where she either does a routine check and walks out again, or finds a cozy corner in which to hide from Dixie for a while.

So when I caught her in my peripheral vision heading for the bedroom yesterday, I looked up from my reading in time to see her pause and look directly at me with an expression that clearly said, “I’m going in there, so don’t try to stop me.” As though I would have dared.

After about 15 minutes, I got up to go to the kitchen, and thought I’d look in on Miss Kitty, as I hadn’t seen her leave the bedroom. And when I turned toward the open door, there she was — sitting up in all her regal beauty in the middle of my bed, surveying her kingdom and giving me that look that said, “I know it’s your room, but it’s my house, so everything in it belongs to me. And this is a great bed.”

And that was that. She had staked her claim, and I felt that in doing so, she had bestowed upon me a great honor: the honor of acceptance.

And it’s only taken five years.

But that’s cats for you.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/15/25