My husband and I both grew up around dogs. In fact, it would be safe to say, there were no cats on our street, or any where near it, since the whole block was occupied by the families of police canine handlers. Getting a cat was quite a novelty experience for a newlywed couple .
Simply said, we fell heels over for our first kitty – Katana. A year after the first one, I begged my husband to drive for hours to get another one. Stormie, a Russian Blue mix, came to us from a family with three little children, who didn't appreciate her independence, or the fact that she was never a toy.
Don't get me wrong, she never was abused, only mistreated and became very timid in her former home. After getting into our family, however, she quickly became the most beautiful and confident cat you'll ever meet. And we lived happily ever after, or so we thought... months passed. We got our own house with an enclosed porch, wide windowsills and an extra room – all keeping our "kits" in mind. We survived our first Michigan winter, no harm done. Well...
Despite the head shakes and eye rolling of some of the neighbors, our home, located in a high population of feral cats, became a "cat soup kitchen" of the neighborhood. That is why I wasn't surprised, when in the middle of a dry and cold February, a young (about three months old) kitten showed up by our porch
meowing her heart out, getting me out in the cold – still in my pajamas – with a bowl of warmed up wet food.
This kitten, though, was not a bit interested in my fancy food. The second I got close to her, she rolled up on her back, white paws and belly sticking up to me, begging me for a rub down. I must admit, at first I thought she must be sick, or injured, so I slowly got on my knees, to see what's what. And lo and behold, the kitten sprung on her paws, meowed and did an infinity loop around my feet.
At this point, still believing this adorable baby must belong to someone in our neighborhood – she was after all, wearing a collar and looked well taken care of – I decided to let her find her way home and went inside. I had no idea the little bugger would follow me to the door, or that she'd stay there for hours, curled up against the wall.
All I remember is, that next time I opened the door, she ran straight through the door and into our basement, and then landed on my husband's soft shell guitar case. By the time I followed her there and petted her on the head, she was fast asleep. My husband and I spent hours posting pictures, both online and around our community. After weeks of looking, and my husband
avoiding both the basement and its tenant, he came to me while I was doing dishes, and said, "We should call her S'more!"