Flo was ageless.
For one, we have no idea how old she was. She had already mothered at least one litter by the time she adopted me in 2008.
But also, she had a face that never really left its kitten roundness. And a tiny frame that hid her age, even through her overweight years.
On the other hand, from the beginning, she had the presence and personality of an old sage. She was never very playful or rambunctious, and was content to politely greet each new person at the door and then settle into her favorite spot across the room and do her knitting. That said, when we arrived home after being away too long, she delivered a yell that can only be described as scolding.
Though she was never a lap cat, Flo preferred us at home. She developed a bond with
@laureola that included routine fluffing on the sofa (only after a blanket was properly folded) and dinner prep conversations. Sometimes, Laura would be busy at her desk and casually look down to the floor and see Flo staring up at her, front feet together at their ballerina angle.
Laura and I sat in the vet’s exam room and held each other, stunned. As we faced the decision about whether to prolong her life, a vision of Flo’s early years flashed in my memory.
It was just a few weeks after the cat had permanently moved into my apartment (undeterred by the multiple times I collared her with a “please tag me or someone else will” and sent her back out in the neighborhood). When I came home from work one day, Flo was gone, and a window open. How could she have jumped from the second story? I wandered aimlessly around the yard, fearing I’d find her with a broken leg. Or worse. Just as I was giving up hope, she popped up on a wall at the end of the parking lot, pranced down the roof and hood of a car, and strolled right up to me.
“I’ve been out,” she said, as if it was no big deal. “I’ve been out on the streets since before you were born.”
