Fisher has never made life easy. She and her sibling tore up the house, and each other, as kittens. There was always something off about them, but we chalked it up to kittenness for a good while. When Hunter went to live with a family with land and a barn and a lot of space to be crazy, we wondered if this wouldn't help Fisher relax. And while she did less spazzing out and didn't get beat up in cat wrestling matches any more, she was never a normal cat. I've come to think of her as a little like my cousin Walt, who we lost ten years ago now. He never quite fit in, but there were little moments, even in the bit of time I spent with him, that you could tell he really, really wanted to be normal.
Fisher comes out when others are over so rarely, they always express surprise that we have another cat, that is if they happen to catch a glimpse of this very pretty, fluffy orange tuxedo tabby cat trying to disappear.
If cats hear voices in their heads, I'm pretty sure Fisher does. She has bizarre reactions to very normal interactions. She can be purring and getting petted and, in an instant, jump across the room and start hissing at invisible ghosts. She can't be around any of the animals without getting so anxious she has to leave the room, even if she was curled up next to me happily purring and another cat simply saunters into the room and hops on another couch.
So it was with a smile that I greeted this sight yesterday.
I don't know if going on 13 years, or something about the sunshine, or the pillow, that allowed it to happen, but the two of them spent half the day dozing within a foot of one another, and Evan laying beside my bed, just out of sight, as usual.
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