Hello, my name is Dina and I cohabitate with the world’s most interesting formerly feral cat named Olive. While I have exhausted my voice in columns past regarding Olive’s amazing feats of glory, she’s mastered some new skills that call for a revisit of her cool cat attributes. See, Olive has grown invisible opposable thumbs. Also, she is bilingual now. But, wait these are only two of the stories we will explore in today’s episode of Kaufman County’s finest purrcast, Olive the Grrrrrreat. How did we get here, you ask? First, let’s cue the Gilligan’s Island dream sequence music and go back all the way to April of 2017. I was working a design job in Granbury, TX. Someone who’d attended an event I’d styled asked me to come and redesign 2 rooms in her home using things she had in other parts of her house and in her storage buildings. In retrospect, I think she just wanted a good spring cleaning. Three days and one broken back later, the rooms looked magazine worthy. Imagine my face when the fee we had agreed upon was paid to me in gift cards. Let’s analyze that once more. I was paid in gift cards. I was livid yet nonconfrontational yet furious yet nauseated by the thought of the confrontation. So, I left with my broken back and money to burn at DSW and IHOP. Just as I was sinking into a woeful mood, my phone rang. It was my daughter-in-law. “Do you want a cat?” she said. “I’m getting one. My sister has a whole litter. They were found out in a field. They are too skinny, and they don’t have a mom.” Sick little kittens who lost their mittens, you say? That’s all I needed to hear. I am that crazy cat lady, after all.
My DIL began sending me kitten pics immediately. I should’ve known something was off. There was only one kitten yet to be claimed, my cat. In all the photos “my cat” was blurrier than the others. I saw an ear here, a tail there, an orb in the corner that looked like a tumbleweed. My DIL’s kitten was GORGEOUS. She had already named her Ducky. “What are you gonna name yours?” she asked. “I’m not sure,” I stammered, “I don’t know what she looks like.” I was told she was a dark gray tabby with big green eyes. I settled on Olive. I’ve always been an advocate for saddling animals with old-fashioned names. My husband was not a fan of the whole cat idea. He’d sworn me to an involuntary no cat rule after the loss of our ragdoll cat, Penelope, years earlier. If there’s one thing I know, however, it’s how to argue. Fast forward to that afternoon. Picture four women, lined up with cat carriers, waiting to pick up kittens like storks working in 1099 mode. The solid black kitten with long hair and yellow eyes went into his carrier. Beautiful tuxedoed Ducky sidled right up to my daughter-in-law like Annie spotting Daddy Warbucks for the first time. The light gray tabby was timid, but compliant, nonetheless. Then, there was tiny Olive. She hid under the refrigerator. She hid behind the stove. She hissed. She spat. She was a no go for the whole adoption process. “It’s ok. You go on home. I’ll drive her over as soon as I can catch her.” I left, sad and dejected. Later that night, a tiny feral monster arrived at my house. She HATED me. And, there were so many crevices for her to hide in, within the walls of my 1910 kitchen. So, I stocked up on wet cat food and books. I sat in my kitchen floor for hours every night, reading out loud to a scared and, as it turned out, very sick little cat. She learned my voice. I administered 10 days of oral antibiotics. We bonded. Now, about those thumbs.
Olive is a very large cat, probably the biggest cat I’ve ever seen. She’s very tall. She’s regal in that ocelot looking sort of way. She has large paws and a huge head. Sure, she’s a bit fluffy, but we keep it body positive over here. Also, Olive loves me. She is obsessed with me. If she sits her bottom in my lap, she is long enough to rest her head on my shoulder, her favorite place. And, Olive is so very strong. She doesn’t sleep with me, because the dogs sleep in my room and Olive prefers to go in and out incessantly. At night, she does crazy things like running through the house and launching her body at my bedroom door. She attempts to remove the door by the hinges. And, as of last night, she has mastered turning the doorknob and opening the door. She is also a world class magician, adept at making things disappear. David Copperfield has nothing on O. She’s confiscated debit cards, wedding rings, lipsticks, pens, and one lone serrano pepper. Every night, as I am about to fall asleep, I hear Olive’s mournful meow, the one she uses when she’s carrying something important in her mouth. “Here she comes,” my husband will murmur, both of us preparing to sleep, eyes closed and halfway gone. We hear it, the drop, the kick, and the score. My beloved Sharpie ballpoint pen hits the floor and comes sailing under my bedroom door toward my side of the bed. I bolt to retrieve it before a silly dog can chew it to smithereens. It’s like Olive wonders if I might require the use of a pen during the night, to write her a love letter, perhaps. “Put your pens up,” you’re surely saying. That’s the thing about invisible opposable thumbs. Olive can open the kitchen drawers. In case you’re wondering about the bilingual part, take a gander at her picture. She’s clearly fluent in sarcasm.
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