Gimpy is wholly original, unlike any other cat I’ve ever encountered. In fact, I’m not entirely convinced she is one.
She is completely at the mercy of the world – ‘helpless’ might be the word – though she often seems too smart for her own good, even for a cat.
Three years old and graying at the ears, when she stares (which is often) it is with impossibly green eyes. The rest of her face, lost to black shadow, dims in comparison to those bright lights.
Three paws (she’s missing one) do their best to keep her upright; often it seems they forget that she is under-staffed. She barrels her way through every movement – somersaulting, vaulting over herself in an effort to get anywhere, colliding with any stationary object in her path (which isn’t always straight).
She frequents the space between feet, usually while they are moving. Being that she’s missing one of her own, it likely ends in disaster more often than naught.
Purrs like a whisper, little more than a silent hum in a narrow chest, the sound is only detected by direct contact with a rib or her very loveable, pettable under-belly.
She cuddles, constantly attached like Velcro – currently attached like Velcro. It is impossible to sit anywhere without Gimpy finding me and taking up residence on my person.
I don’t believe she realizes claws are sharp, evident by scratches and scars – the marks of her devotion as she climbs her way, often forcefully, into my arms.
An inside cat (because three working legs and an escape plan rarely succeed), I am trying to keep her un-pregnant (though somehow she always is).
There is a piece missing from one of her bat-like ears which, when compared to her long, often tilted, face, give the impression of satellites ready to transmit orders, sir. Maybe that is why she always looks confused – she should have made contact months ago.
She sleeps with her eyes half-lidded, it is impossible to tell whether or not she is asleep. Does an operative for the alien enemy really ever sleep?
Mid-rest, she has been known to roll over, leaving her incapacitated on her back, startled and tangled on the floor, very far away from where she last remembers being (namely a few feet higher and in a cushioned chair). Involuntary movements, all; definitely unplanned.
Though seemingly startled by life, she is not without enthusiasm for it – surprised to find that she can walk and eat and roam between two moving feet, she is content to find herself upside-down when her zeal catches up with her. But there is never any doubt that she loves me, she is never startled by that. I often wonder what she must be thinking, something profound and life-changing, no doubt, though instantly forgotten. She is, perhaps, the perfect companion. I love her dearly.