Meet the gang: Molly

I have quite a few cats in my life. Some I’ve rescued and adopted, others I helped get back on their feet and into loving homes. I’m totally a crazy cat lady.

Here’s Molly, the first cat we welcomed into our home.

Don't be fooled by the pink leopard-spotted bow. Seriously.

Don't be fooled by the pink leopard-spotted bow. Seriously.

Here’s the Molly story:  Early-ish spring 2005,  I was at home,  sick with a hangover the flu and feeling quite restless. I decided to make myself useful and take out the trash.

I remember the bag was extra disgusting; full to the top, bulging at the seams … and there was a frighteningly large amount of pea green liquid floating at the bottom. I made a mental note to bitch later.

Ahh, the burden of being a woman. Reflecting on this incident now, though, I think it’s a stupid thing to bitch about. A waste of a bitch, really. See, ladies, it’s all about picking your battles. That’s a lesson my daddy taught me.

Amy, he said, throwing clothes into a duffel bag, remember this: guys can’t stand it when a girl is constantly yapping into his ear, bitching about every little thing. He stopped packing for a moment to dodge a lamp my mother had thrown at him and took the opportunity to kneel and grab my shoulders. Ya gotta pick your battles, sweetie, pick your battles. Pick one thing, two, tops, to bitch about every day and make it a good one! Then he got up, closed his bag and walked out the front door. I never saw him again.

(Not a true story.)

ANYWAY, as I was making the 100 foot trek from the dumpster back to my front door, I noticed something in my the corner of my eye. A black and golden streak, just barely darting out of my line of sight. Curious, but suddenly winded from all this exercise, I went back inside and closed the door.

No one was home and it was pin quiet, so I could clearly hear the plaintive murrrr-rowww from the other side of the door.

I swung open the door to reveal a small, doe-eyed cat, maybe still a kitten, with golden brown, black and cream colored fur, tipped with four fat snowy white paws. She looked up at me and meowed again, then brushed past me, swishing her tail and gently rubbing against my leg.

“Hey!” I protested. “Do you know how rude it is to just barge into someones house uninvited?”

She ignored me and began munching happily on the shiny green strands of my darling house plant.  I quickly shooed her away and made her a plate of cold chicken left over from dinner. She inhaled the food, smacked her lips at looked up me expectantly. I obliged, shredding more chicken and then cooked up an egg white and gave that to her, too. She ate everything, quite greedily, I might add, and then proceeded to lap at the kitchen sink for almost five minutes.

I wanted to keep her. She had only been hanging out with me for an hour or so when I decided her name was Molly and began getting angry when she wouldn’t respond to it. Stupid cat.

I’ve always been an animal person, especially cats, but I had recently lost a beloved pet (that’s another story for another time, perhaps) and I also knew Carlos wouldn’t be warm to a new house guest. I had been asking for a cat or a dog for the past year, to no avail. Once after seeing mice trained to perform circus tricks on a t.v show, I called him from Petco and threatened to bring home a family of mice, regardless of his wishes. What was he going to do about it? I taunted. Load my Gamo, he responded.

The mice stayed (safely) at Petco. Hmpf.

So, after a few hours, I began telling Molly that I was sorry,  it wasn’t her, it was me, well, actually, my evil, horrible, hateful, heartless boyfriend. She looked at me with those big brown puddle eyes and licked a paw.

I made a big bowl of chicken and set it out at the end of the driveway.  Then, sobbing softly, I nudged Molly out of our house and back into the big bad world. I felt like a mother bird, pushing her chick out of the nest. Only my birdie didn’t fly. She stayed right outside my door for the next hour and meowed softly. I cried and cursed my boyfriend, grabbed his favorite pen and scribbled mean old man over and over again until the ink was gone. Ah-ha! Amy, you evil evil genius.

Finally, the meowing stopped and when I peeked out the window, she was gone. I hated myself.

Twenty minutes later I ran downstairs, flung open the door and began calling for her. The plate I had left was untouched, as if to say Screw you bitch, I don’t want your pity chicken. I completely understood.

I didn’t find her. I went back in and this time unscrewed the cap to Carlos’ Wild Cherry Pepsi 2 liter, thoroughly enjoying the sharp hisssss of the delicious carbonation releasing. Mu-ah-HAHAHAHHA! I. Am. Pure. Evil.

An hour later Carlos comes home. I don’t go downstairs to greet him. I hear the door close, and then, excited, hurried footsteps up the stairs. He bursts through the door, his eyes bright. Guess what?

What? I examine my nails.

The door swings open wider, and I hear a familiar murrr-roooww. I jump up, shocked, to see little Miss Mollypants curling herself around my boyfriends legs.

She just followed me in the house! He announced, positively thrilled. She was meowing away, and I think we should keep her!

If it were at all possible and not horribly cliched, my jaw would would’ve been on the floor.

What do you think?

Molly looks up at me, and I swear she is smiling smugly.

Later, we are getting ready to go to Petco for all the necessary “kitty accoutrements”. You want anything to drink before we go? Carlos yells from the kitchen.

Hmmm, I thought. Some Wild Cherry Pepsi sounds good-oh CRAP.

Molly prefers to be by herself. She is happiest sunning herself on the enclosed balcony, away from all the hubbub of the house. Oh, and another thing about Molly?

She loves, loves …

Molly

… loves …

Molly

… and I mean, loves

Molly

… to hide under blankets …

Molly Under 5

… like, a lot …

MollyUnder6

… yeah, she’s weird.

MollyUnder3

And I have, like, a hundred more of these.

I love Molly, even if she only just last year forgave me for kicking her out on the street.

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