On a Saturday evening in my Central Austin apartment, I’m dealing with what’s now become a familiar problem.
A 1-year-old calico kitty is standing at the front door, staring at the door handle, and meowing nonstop. The cat will occasionally take breaks to wander around the living room or direct her cries for freedom at me directly, but the meowing never stops.
First rescued in San Antonio, this little cat is mostly white on the bottom with black and orange spots everywhere else.
Her name is Lady Bird – in honor of the Karnack, Texas, native who married Lyndon Johnson, served as first lady, and later became the face of Texas wildflowers. The perfect name for a kitty rescued in San Antonio.
Overall, Lady Bird is a nice kitty.
She purrs and rubs up against strangers, lets me rock her around in my arms, and I’ve only ever heard her hiss once (a dog was barking directly outside my apartment).
She’s also a hellraiser.
In just over a month at my apartment, she’s rummaged through my trash three times, destroyed the blinds to my dining room window, and ripped a hinge off the cabinet door where her food is stored.
I know she’s devious because she carefully plans all of her mischief around the times when I’m out of the apartment or fully unconscious. I almost never catch her in the act – I just discover the aftermath.
For most of my life, I’ve hated pets.
They create an infinite stream of hair that dirties even the tidiest living spaces, never fully learn how to tame their wild instincts, and they smell.
Then I saw Lady Bird.
I ended up with her because animal shelters in San Antonio were full and unable to make room for even the tiniest and cutest little kitties.
When I was purchasing cat food, toys and a litter box in anticipation of her arrival, I was excited but nervous. Now I think I’m in love.
Even though she won’t stop meowing at the door.