March is the month that my baby girl turns thirteen. I’m not exactly sure which day, because she’s a child of the streets. She was found with her siblings, from whom she was separated at an early age. The first time I saw her widdle face, I fell in love.
I adopted her three months later, when she was twelve weeks old. I visited her nearly everyday at the shelter when I got out of work. I would walk over from the restaurant where I was waitressing at the time. She seemed to like me and I adored her. Once I had the okay from the landlord, she came home with me.
Daphne has been with me through some of the lowest points in my life. Always there to remind me that someone was waiting for me; keeping me from being alone when I was lonely. She’s one of the reasons, I knew the Fella was a keeper; she didn’t like men and she thinks he’s aces.
She’s a teenager now, which means she’s a senior in the kitty lifespan. Don’t tell her that, though; she still tears through the hallway at full speed and rolls around the floor like a kitten. We took her to the vet for a whole senior kitty diagnostic panel. She’s in remarkably good shape for a cat of her vintage. We will likely have her for years to come.
So happiest of birth months to my dowager calico. Long may she reign, long may she purr.