Having arrived at the Farm for Christmas

Tig from summer, backlit in sun.

This is T. He’s the third cat we’ve had at the Farm (since I was a child) named Tigger, but we roll like kids here, and a fitting or familiar name can always be used more than once. (Farm folk are pragmatists.)

He’s the sweetest cat I’ve known in a long time— serious; takes some time before he trusts you, but at the base is sweet as pie. Wants to be. He’s all about touch, and relaxes into mad purring; you can mold him like clay.  His main drawback is that he literally never stops shedding—  I told him tonight he sheds purrs and furs, nonstop.

But he’s civilized, he gets people (and animals)— when to be around, and when not. I admire that. Wish I could take him back to Brooklyn, but my folks would miss him too much,  my space would be too small, and I believe he rather enjoys the chaos of living with the feral beast that is the younger cat here (a rescued monstrous runt from the barn cats), and the dogs. His challenges seem to strengthen his resolve to live well. It’s part of his charm.

If you think I anthropomorphize too much, you simply haven’t got to know a good cat (or other nonhuman) yet.

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