Kitty

She has a name. Miri. It's a type of pretty little flower. But we call her Kitty. Perhaps it's because my octogenarian grandparents called their black cat "Kitty" when I was growing up. At any rate, Kitty is my first cat. I'm terribly allergic to cats and so is Dave.  I didn't want a cat. But Evan did. So when we moved into this house with it's huge window well right outside his basement window, I relented. The Broadbents had kittens. They would give us one. For free. FINE. It stays OUTSIDE.  That was the deal. Outside cat.

We've had her now for four years. And I like her. Granted, she does not do a happy dance when I get home like the dog does. I mean I get the happy dance from the dog even if I have only been gone 20 minutes. No, on the other hand, Kitty often looks at me like I am not very bright. But here's what I like:
She stays outside. She roams the fields and chases mice. She doesn't usually bring us the mice, which I appreciate. When I sit on the deck with my tea, she comes over and sits with me. Or flops over and lays on her back, showing off her white belly. Or she plays with the ties on the seat cushion of my chair. In the yard, she sits up on the fence post and curls her tail around the post. So picturesque. I love it.

Her relationship with the dog is interesting. Early on I had to coach the dog not to kill her. This took a while. But now Kitty can walk up and sit right next to the dog. Sometimes the dog is ok with this. And sometimes not. The dog growls at her. And chases her out of the yard. But every night, especially through the long cold winter, they curl up together in the dog's house. Sweet.

Often, when I'm at my kitchen sink, I look out the back door and see this:

Kitty is very low-maintenance and brings me lots of smiles. That's a pretty good bargain.