I've had The Wee Olive for 17 years, from the time she was a kitten that fit in a teacup. Her mother was feral, skin and bones, but she kept her kittens spotlessly clean. (A few days after I managed to catch kitten Olive, I saw the poor mother's body by the road.)
Here is a portrait of the grown up Olive:
Very Marlene Deitrich, but here is a picture of her that best captures her disposition:
In short, she's insane. She will be purring on your lap and suddenly stop the music. If you look down, you see that her eyes are pools of insanity. If you move, you can end up in the ER, getting stitches.
And here is a picture of her lurking in the plants at the kitchen window, glaring at a fuzzy thing in a crate--Wolsey, when I first brought him home. The next picture is of Wolsey himself, asleep in the crate, exhausted from the excitement of moving.
He was seven years old when I got him, but bringing home Wolsey in some ways resembled bringing home one's first baby. I sat and watched him while he slept. I handled him like fragile antique glass. It took us awhile to get to know each other. But when we did:
And here is my all time favorite of Wolsey. I've included it here before, but one can't get too much of it:
In his first days with me, Wolsey had a wee accident on the kitchen floor. When I came in the kitchen and found it and him, here was his demeanor:
But why? He had never been in a kitchen before, much less made a poo in one! I wish I understood the poor laddy's hard wiring. . . .
