A line cast, a hope followed

Friday Catbird Blogging: A portrait for Dave, a day late, although you could say yesterday's attempt at poetry was more "cat-bird" appropriate anyhow.

She is petite, dainty even, with a small pointy face and delicate paws. She is fully grown but much smaller than the others, owing to childbirth at such a tender age and then subsequent starvation by the despicable humans who dumped her. When I saw her that day four years ago and noted how her eyes were too large for the rest of her, you remember how babies eyes are large so as to capture their mother's attention? Ribs protruding (but that was then, she has a nice little round belly now; after we nearly lost her in the first couple of days, overeating to try and make up for what her body had lost, and then throwing it up again until we started rationing, giving her small amounts every hour or so,) well anyhow, I was unable to walk away when they told me she had starved while her body kept making milk for her kittens, so maybe this is why she purrs anytime I am within ten feet of her. Not all cats appreciate their rescuers, but there isn't a day she doesn't thank me. Given the opportunity, she will press her body against mine in any way possible, whether its shoving her face into my abdomen while I sit, cuddling up into the curve of my neck if I hold her while standing, curled exactly into the small of my back while I sleep, then when I roll away from her onto my back she crawls over, drapes her upper body over my collar bones settling the rest into the hollow of my underarm. She likes to be hugged. I've never met a cat who enjoyed the sensation of being squeezed. But she can only tolerate a small amount of petting, the ears go back then woe to you if you haven't retreated, claws snap out and you are skewered. Her fur is short and an amazing pattern of black and orange. She is mostly black-mottled tortoise shell, but like a horse she has an orange diamond in the middle of her forehead, from afar her golden fur acts like underlighting on her chin, and her front left paw sports two nearly blond toes. She must be nearly five years old now, but she still looks and acts a lot like a baby, talking in little squeeks and mews, scampering wildly across the bedroom then ducking and sliding under the dresser without even slowing to pounce on a toy mouse, whacking at the dog's fluffy tail as he turns to walk away from inappropriately nosing her. She gets the run of the house, whereas the other cats are rarely allowed to roam freely, and we sometimes find her perched atop the aquarium housing the anoles, them: safely buried in a plant at the bottom of the enclosure, her: tail flicking, barely denting the screen top with her weight, green eyes wide. Of the residents she is the most graceful, the most affectionate, the most quirky. For example, she strongly prefers to drink from a running faucet - you will find her perched waiting next to a sink as you wash dishes or brush your teeth. She reaches out to grab you with a front paw if you walk past without acknowledging her. She bounds rabbit-like at times, in a front to back rocking motion, as if in a sack race. This is "Acorn," "Little Bit of a Cat," "Bitty," "Sweet Girl".