We have a bunch of cats, most of which take turns prowling through the studio to see what can be knocked over, broken, smashed, peed on, or stolen and batted around. My constant companion, however, is Smoke, a small, fluffy black cat with an evil temper and dagger-sharp claws. She hates everyone in the house, except for me, who she loves occasionally and tolerates frequently. She has the silkiest fur of any cat I’ve ever met but she can stand only limited petting. I bribe her onto my lap with a box of treats and she’ll stay for a while, long enough for me to get my hands on her. Then she jumps onto the back of my chair, her favorite hang out spot. It’s a rolling chair so she needs to anchor herself up there with her claws, much to the detriment of the fabric, which you can see in the photo below.
For some reason I love this little cat immensely, in an inverse proportion to the sweetness of her personality. She came to me at about three weeks of age, all the way from a high-kill shelter in Georgia, along with her three sisters and her mama, delivered by a dedicated volunteer who rescued and drove a bunch of cats up here to Delaware, probably about a 12-hour drive. My family nursed the felines back to health and our rescue group (Andy’s Friends) was able to adopt out all of them except for Smoky, who I kept for her silky fur.
Which she rarely allows me to touch.