I recently adopted a kitten. Her name is Isabella.
It’s an innocent enough name for an innocent looking being. But come to find out, innocent she is not.
This kitten is a beast. A wild one. Domesticated, sure. But domestic? Well, you can draw that conclusion for yourself.
As I write this the feline — “Izzy Whizzy” my truly innocent niece has dubbed her — is gnawing at my ankle. In fact, there is very little of my anatomy that this cat has not gnawed at within the short period I have claimed her as my fur baby.
My hands look like they’ve been hacked by tiny axes.
Yes, tiny axes. That pretty much describes her claws. And teeth.
My legs and my back — what’s left of them, anyway — have been sliced repeatedly with small symmetrical lines. Based solely on this, one might think I have been attacked by a poltergeist.
I’m not so certain that I haven’t, in fact. If ghosts only had fur. And innocent-looking eyes.
Though the kitten is only a few months old, she does possess some qualities not unlike that of a human teenager.
She sleeps long past noon. She eats me out of house and home. And her attitude can be, well, problematic.
To date, the cat has:
- Passed out on my head while I was asleep. I awoke to her butt positioned directly above my nose.
- Pooped in the middle of the floor instead of the litter box. I discovered this while on a dark, late-night visit to the bathroom, still half asleep, when tiny cat feces uncomfortably met the bare sole of my foot.
- Pulled half a box of Kleenex out of the tissue holder. She then proceeded to violently tear them to shreds, leaving the mess for me to clean.
- Startled me awake at a still-too-early three in the morning. She was chasing a belled ball — the noisiest of all her toys — at record breaking speeds around the house, apparently still high from the catnip-stuffed elephant (another much less noisy, but still problematic, toy).
Are you seeing a theme here? The kitten has a thing for the night. And the bags under my eyes indicate she wants me to as well.
I know this is just a phase. I know she is still learning about the world. Attempting to push boundaries. Developing a personality of her own.
I also now know why some parents ship their difficult children off to reform school.
If there were a reform school for kittens, I’d probably be sending Isabella there, too.
But then again, maybe I wouldn’t. I’d miss her after all. Her tiny, slender tail. Her delicate, furry ears. Her very boop-able nose. Her cuteness in general.
For all of my complaints (and believe me, there are many) I can’t help but unconditionally love her. The way she snuggles on my lap, her innocent-looking eyes dozing off to a purred melody. The way she rubs her head against my hand to be petted more. The way she runs to the door, her little high-pitched voice meowing, greeting me when I return from my walk each morning.
I guess the cat gives me the feels, as the kids would say. And the greatest feeling she gives me is joy.
Welcome home, Isabella. Now would you please stop using my ankle as a chew toy.
Editor's Note: This article first appeared on Medium on June 1, 2023.
The "Valley View" column features essays on life in the Kanawha Valley. Have a story or life lesson to share? Email ramsburgreports@gmail.com to have your essay featured in this space.
