If you find some stray impulse control wandering around West L.A., that would likely be mine. Then again, I never had it microchipped, so who’s to say?
This afternoon, I left the house for some errands around 1 o’clock. The main item on the agenda was to go to The Skirball’s new exhibition, “Half the Sky.” Andy and I had been at opening night, but it was a cocktail party environment, not a-“let’s learn about the global slave trade”-environment. By the way, how do people on the charity circuit do it? “Heading to the bar: red or white?” “Red, thanks. I’ll meet you over by the infant mortality display.”
I’ve been planning for weeks to get back to the museum for a proper walk through. Earlier today, though, I ramped up my Pet Adoption research. Andy and I made a list of questions over coffee. I put a tweet out to two of my most cat savvy friends. I skimmed some sites, noted the recommendations of unscented litter and wet food. I oohed and ahhed at pictures of available rescuees (which felt a bit too much like Match.com for my liking), and eventually decided to just stop by the shelter on my way to the museum for a quick informational interview.
By 3:30, I was home again.
With a cat.
Specifically, Number A1260981. She’s approximately two years old and came in to the shelter as a stray almost two weeks ago. Someone there took to calling her “Berta,” which meant writing Berta on the cage placard.
It’s not bad: Berta, but I wonder what she thinks of it.
I called her Berta while I was there snapping her picture and falling in love with her. Mostly, though, we referred to her as “A1260981.”
As soon as I got her into the car, she became “Sweetheart” and “Kitty” and “I’m-sorry-we’re-almost-home-I-mean-the-place-I-hope-you’ll-like-enough-to-call-home-someday” and “You’re safe.”
She’s been under the bed for three hours. I’m glad I took the photo; who knows how long it will be before I get another look at her.
Welcome, little one.
November — NaBloPoMo — Day Ten