October 18, 2012 by phicks2012
I have a cat whose purr registers on the richter scale and whose front claws need to be licensed as lethal weapons. Once she takes up a strategic position on your lap, wearing light-weight knit slacks, panty hose, or any loose-weave fabric is inadvisable if you aren’t partial to the “Picked and Frayed” look made briefly popular in six adjacent counties of Alabama by cat enthusiast fashionista Anita Maykover in 1968.
She has decimated my desk chair’s rough-weave fabric to the point that House Beautiful will never do a layout of my office — assuming that they ever in this lifetime might do so otherwise — but she makes an excellent window sill ornament and an wonderful lap-warmer as long as you pad the area well and don’t mind the occasional addition of a butt-in-the-face.
She is adopted, and spayed, and spoiled beyond all reckoning — and in fact beyond all probable forms of scientific measurement — and I suspect she might be channelling the spirit of either the Queen of Sheba or some earlier incarnation of Lady Gaga.
Her name is Thiam, and she is the Castle Cat.