Cassie basking under the cat god.
Hard to know what to say about this girl. She’s as big as a minute, lived for years in the rafters of the garage, and suddenly descended to spend her sunset time with us. She’s not afraid of the dogs. She’s innately afraid of humans, like all of her feral kind. But she bravely overcomes it on a regular if not predictable basis. Sometimes she allows herself to be scooped up and petted. But the picture above is the more usual perspective we have of her. The girl you can’t ever quite possess the way you’d like, no matter how much you love her.
We can see that she’s getting truly aged now. We’ve already lost her sister Penny and her brother Mickey, both beloved in our household despite their feral quirks.
Of course, my wife thinks I’m a sentimentalist, and I am. It was Fitzgerald who defined the difference between a sentimentalist and a romantic: “The sentimentalist hopes love never ends, and the romantic knows it has to.”
I don’t want Cassie to end. When I see her, I keep hearing this, the most sentimental of all songs.
What an old poop am I.