Here is Klimey who belongs to the proletariat, who has earned her way into the hearts of her parents by climbing the fence in the animal shelter where they met her, who nearly got kicked out of the house because she preferred to pee on their wood floor, who regained favor and respect when she scaled the shower door and defied reeducation.
She grows into a solid mass, lacks elegance and grace; but her eyes are bright and her tail is bushy. Her good nature earns her points over and over, even though she still occasionally finds places to leak: into a beautiful Moroccan bowl and on the stove. Since her companion Petey died, Klimey has been a bit out of sort.
On Memorial Day she brought home a mouse—something that Petey was an expert on. But instead of severing the body she batted it back and forth with her paws, until the poor mouse was rescued and taken back into the garden.
She finished her dried food and scratched the carpet on the stairs. She seems content now, maybe, just for now.
