Catatonic?

I will, no doubt, be the neighborhood Crazy Cat Lady in my old age. And I’m okay with that. There’s something about felines that tug on my heartstrings a little more than any other animal. (PLEASE do not tell my dachshund I said that! I love him. I do! But he's not a cat.)

I’ve been proudly owned by seven kitties thus far. A few were strays that we fostered for a while, then they moved on to new homes. And there was one who wouldn’t stop leaving nasty things on my bed as she was too lazy to make a detour to the litter box. It was a deal-breaker for our relationship, and she was promptly moved to new quarters. It broke my heart.

Currently I have two gorgeous, well-behaved kitties, but I was open to a third. When a friend’s father recently died, leaving three cats homeless, I agreed to adopt one. Miss Tabitha arrived yesterday; a dark brown tabby with stunning green eyes. I’ve barely gotten to know her, as she has spent the past 10 hours hiding behind my washing machine, catatonic-like. She has been traumatized since the death of her daddy. Super Hubs and I will spent our Friday evening doing some large appliance moving and calling on Rock Star, our Cat Whisperer. I’ll keep you posted.