About the Princess

We have that prettiest and whiniest little excuse of a black cat I’ve ever seen. She’s somewhere between 6 and 7 years old, but she’s no bigger than an average 8 month old kitten. My sister pawned her off on us when she was only 6 or so weeks old, and I could hold her (the cat, not my sister) in one hand.

Suzanne (my sister) knows that I have a weakness for black cats.

What she didn’t know is that Amanda (the cat) is Burmese. That means she’s a tiny black Siamese that makes a lot of noise. But she isn’t mean like a Siamese. (Thank God for small favors.)

Still, I’ve never heard as much noise coming from such a small creature in my life. When she gets to whining, she can wake the dead, including people who’ve been cremated.

Amanda hasn’t been the same since Pinto died. He was our 18 year old orange tabby. When I showed him to her on the dining table, dead in a box on top of his favorite sweater of mine and covered with a lace napkin, she didn’t like it.

She howled and jumped out of my arms.

She whined and howled for weeks, I think to try to reanimate his ashes. She sat and stared at the little wooden box they’re in for hours. Somehow, she knew that was him.

She’s better now, but restless still. She roams from room to room like she’s looking for something, poking her head in closets and under furniture.

Except for when she’s sleeping. Or playing with a pine cone she knocked off the coffee table. She could give Pele a run for his money when it comes to batting something around with her feet. Of course Pele wasn’t allowed to pick the ball up in his mouth and fling it. So it’s really not a fair comparison.

She’s taken up residence on the top of the left end of the back of the sofa, where she dozes like a sphinx. Either there, or on the bed, curled up regally, with her elegant ears sticking up like two miniature sails. Or on the black chair in the study, where she throws caution to the wind and just plain-old sprawls out.

Did I mention that she’s beautiful? An angular, sculpted face and eyes as big as two full moons. All surrounded by sleek, glossy black hair and topped with her perky ears.

She’s too pretty for her own good. And she knows it.

Her name is Amanda, but she mostly gets called “Little Miss”. She demands to be treated like a princess. Anything else is unacceptable.

I read on National Geographic that cats, unlike other tame animals, domesticated themselves as long as 130,000 years ago, and they carry the vestiges of that choice to live among humans still. People do not choose cats; cats choose people.

So we live in deference to an eight pound walking fur coat with eyes that neither of us can say no to. We have no choice.

My sister knew a sucker when she saw one.