Once upon a May, 2009, on the day of the great Syttende Mai footrace, a scrawny orange and white cat got sucked up into the windy venturi of joggers, and raced a mile or two down the road. Or maybe even further. Or maybe just a few blocks, we don't know. When he finally got kicked out of the maelstrom, he was at our house.
"Don't feed him, he'll never leave," I said.
But he was a cute, scrawny cat, long legged and so very different from the slouchy, letting-themselves-go, low-slung black cats who call our house a home. He got fed. He stayed. He got a name.
"Ornge," Colin calls him. But after several days of deep reflection, a family straw poll went with...Lewis. And once you name a cat, soon enough there will be a manila folder at the vet's bearing the cat's name. And so it is with Lewis.
Lewis does yoga.
Introducing:
Lewis the Cat
3 comments:
Welcome Home, Lewis.
Patsy Kerner came to live at our house in similar fashion.
I opened the door a crack to see how deep the snow was on the front steps. She appeared from what seemed like out of nowhere, ran into the house and asked "Where's the Tuna?"
Do you suppose Lewis and Patsy are related? They seemed to have the same "game plan" when picking out their new friends and family?
Lewis is beautiful! Glad you were adopted, Bruce.
'Lewis' as in Clive Staple...appropriate for your household. Long may he reign....but not on the furniture?
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