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