Boo, cat wonder! Tilf introduces Boo, the cat of woo!

It suddenly occurred to me that I have mentioned Boo rather a lot, and I haven’t even had the common decency to introduce you.

So, for your reading pleasure, allow me to introduce to you, Boo, cat of equal measure derp and genius, a creature that follows the rules of pets and their owners and is basically a tiny me.

Or I’m a big her, I can’t decide.

Anyway, Boo is a slightly overweight, tabby house-cat, through her own choice, before anyone shouts about animal welfare. We introduced her to the outside world, all she did was hiss at everything, whimper a lot, then charge back inside like all the devils of hell were at her heels. Which, I suppose, she figured they were. I never made her go outside again.

She came to me as a spite present, that back-fired a little. An ex bought her for me, from a friend of a friend. The rest of her litter, he delighted in telling me, had been drowned in a bag with only a brick for company. She was one of the few kittens to live, and had been sold, traded, offered as a drug deal and just plain stolen several times before I got her.

She rescued me. Had he not have got her for, as a way to keep me at his flat, I would have stayed, waiting for him to get bored of raping me and just kill me already. Thankfully, I suddenly had a reason to escape, alive. Boo. The wonder cat.

Who regularly walks into doors, chairs, shoes, boxes and her own feet.

I rescued her, by accident, and she rescued me, by accident. And I couldn’t be happier with her. Until three in the morning when she decides that the best way to get to sleep is bite my ear/nose/finger until I wake up and stroke her until she falls asleep again. Bless her.

Anyway, Boo has some weird habits. Smoking for one. She sits behind me, whenever I smoke, and makes a point of sitting in the smoke, if I move the cigarette to the other side, she moves with it. She won’t poop in the main body of the litter tray, she sticks her front half out through the door, and goes in the first three inches of box. She, like every other cat in the world, has a sudden urge to run from the room. But only after staring with horror at something no one else can see. She won’t eat salmon, she’ll eat tuna, but only from a fork. She doesn’t really like milk, but will bug me for it, just to prove a point.

She is cat. I am slave. Deal with it.
Fair enough.

She doesn’t like storms, or shouting, or foreign languages spoken too loud, she tells then off. A mix of growl and nononono. She regularly sighs at me, and glares when I have to move her. Normally to do something so inconvenient as answer the door, go to the toilet or try and stop my back suddenly twinge in a painful spasm.

But the really funny thing about Boo is what she doesn’t do. She doesn’t like people, and, considering her kittenhood, I don’t blame her. Not in the slightest. But, when she first got our the box at the flat, she dashed for cover under the sofa, refusing to come out. I left her to it, waiting for her to be comfortable enough to come to me. On Boo’s second day in the flat, my then boyfriend, we’ll call him ‘Maggot’, has been laying on my shoulder. He can hear the bones grind, and knows it’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t care. He gets up for a second, and she speeds our from under the sofa, clambers across me and lays on my shoulder, her warm skin easing the pain. He tried to shoo get off, I stood up to him, finally, and from then on, she didn’t leave my side.

Ever since, I have been her person, I suppose some fools would say that she is my cat, but these are people who obviously don’t own or understand cats. I love get to pieces, even when she randomly claws my face for attention, attacks my foot, for whatever reason she can think of.

But her farts are truly out of this world.

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