A year and a half ago I adopted a Siamese cat. I have no idea about her first year of life –what she experienced, whether she was kicked out or ran away from her first home.

When I met her at the rescue place, I picked her up and hugged her. Mistake. She growled. Adopting her was a back-and-to decision. I couldn’t make up my mind at first, but I went through with it.

The day I brought her home, I carried Tasha and walked around the house –something I have done with my older cats. I held her snugly in my arms. She turned her head until she could see me. She growled at me, at every room, at the other two cats and at life in general. I figured her life must be in turmoil and she had seen too many changes.

When I let her loose, she jumped down with a mix of a high soprano scream and a hoarse hiss. She disappeared somewhere and I didn’t see hide nor hair of her for two weeks.

One evening I decided to cook up chicken. I had cut up the breast and stirred pieces into hot oil. I turned around to get some-thing and lo and behold, the Siamese sat on the floor a couple of feet away watching me. She licked her lips and said, “Me-ow?” She sat prim and lady-like, not the hissing harridan of two weeks before.

I asked, “Do you want a piece of chicken?”

A smiled curved her lips. Tasha replied, “Me-ow!”

I gave her several pieces.

For the next several days when I cooked, she ate, then disappeared again.

Malaina (May ’19) says, “My older Siamese had passed away a year earlier. Like losing family members, I have always mourned the death of each cat in my life. Adopting Tasha was part of that process.”

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