So far my life is definitely a short story. I’m only five months old, after all. But I’ve already known three homes.
My mom was a feral cat. That means she didn’t have a real home; she just lived wherever she could find some food and a place to sleep. But then she had kittens: me, my sister, and four brothers. Some nice people found us and felt sorry for us. They took us to the animal shelter. I don’t remember much about that, except that a nice lady took all of us home and gave us a nice room to live in. I had fun exploring and running around. I got a real name, all my own: Fiona.
Then came the next change. These people came to visit. They held me and petted me, and I heard them tell the nice lady, “We want Fiona.” What did that mean? Nothing happened for a while, except for going to the vet for shots and some kind of operation. Then one day–December 8th, to be exact–those two people came back. This time they had a big bag they put me in. It had windows so I could look out and a soft, thick floor. They took me outside and got in this scary thing called a car. One of them held the bag while we went somewhere. I was pretty nervous, but she kept telling me it was okay.
When the car stopped, they carried me into a house and opened up the bag. I jumped out and looked around. Everything was new to me: couches, tables, windows, and things I’d never seen before. I spent the day exploring. And whenever I got tired, I looked for a warm place to curl up. I found out that my people have warm laps, and sometimes they let me nap on them. Necks are nice, too, if I can get the person to sit still long enough. I think this will be a good home. Now if I can just convince my people that it’s okay for me to run across the table and climb on the counters and chew up pens… I don’t see what the problem is!
