Morrigan likes to sleep under my desk and yells loudly when she is left alone in a room. She is definitely a Siamese mix, if there was any doubt left.
I can’t tell if my wife is turning into Tammy Pierce, Seanan McGuire, or some unholy mix of the two.
Either way, though, we got a cute cat out of the bargain.
Haha, I said Siamese mix! And yeah, the Siamese voice is pretty unmistakable.
I caught my friend from yesterday and am calling her Morrigan. I am almost positive she’s pregnant (going to see if we can scare up some money for vet care), though it’s hard to tell when she’s curled up like that. Mat got a hilarious video of the process of catching her, which resulted in a gash on the palm for him and three tiny punctures for me. Worth it.
She is very shy and does not like being picked up, but doesn’t mind being petted. She’s a lot calmer in here than outside.
Why hello, lady. You have to be at least part Siamese with that body shape and those enormous ears.
I am struck occasionally, usually while snuggling the cat, with our faith in domestication.
The cat is a small, ferocious predator, twelve pounds of…well, flab and fur, frankly, in Athena’s case, but what muscle there is is strong all out of proportion to her size. I have watched three 150+ primates try and fail to subdue a ten pound cat, and consider it not at all unusual. The cat is as flexible as a snake and as strong as an ox. She has quite dainty looking teeth and claws, but there’s nothing dainty about their ability to flay flesh from bone.
If the cat and I were in a duel to the death, I would almost certainly win. I am 15+ times larger than she is, after all, and while my teeth and claws are pathetic, I have prehensile hands capable of doing terrible things. But if I had to go in naked, as the cat does, (and assuming the cat was aware that she was going to have to kill me, and not taking a nap in the corner) I can pretty much guarantee it would be a Pyhrric victory. I’d look like I’d gone ten rounds with a wolverine. I would need stitches. A lot of stitches. Possibly a glass eye. And antibiotics by the truckload. It’d be a mess, and there would even be a chance of an upset if the cat managed to go face-hugger on me.
And yet, despite the knowledge of the shocking amount of damage my small predator could inflict, it never occurs to me to worry. I pick the cat up and she tucks her head under my chin and purrs, canine teeth centimeters from my jugular, and despite the fact that I am carrying a ruthless carnivore in a position where she could, with great ease, remove me from the gene pool, I am thoroughly content with the world. Even knowing full well that cats are not even a truly domesticated animal, that Athena’s kin might best be described as “consistently tamed,” my greatest concern is that my black tank top is now coated in white cat hairs.
We have such faith in the process of domestication, despite the sheer unnaturalness of what’s happening. Small predators do not curl up on the chests of large primates and purr in the wild. And yet, every now and again, generally when my small predator is purring on the chest of this particular primate, I think How strange, how strange… that we’re doing this, and even stranger, that we both take it completely for granted, and find nothing unusual in such a completely unlikely alliance.
knitting in the dark 