In 2001, a friend who rescued a pretty little dilute calico off my porch let me know she was pregnant. I said, “If there’s a female orange one in the bunch, I’ll take her.”
And there was. She was orange tabby like her father, with all the tabby attitude, but she had her mother’s petite frame and long hair. Not long hair in the Persian style, but the Angora. A wonderful ruff, full chest, fluffy belly, full breeches and a plumy tail, and lovely gold-green eyes, and all the attitude. I mean, ALL the attitude.
We named her Cameline. Cameline sauce is a medieval sauce which goes well with chicken. It is ginger, cinnamon, vinegar, and bread.
As a kitten, she loved to be up, as high as possible, and while she stopped zooming up the wall and sitting on the cornice, she kept the habit of sitting up high to the end of her days. And for all that she looked like a princess, she was the reason there’s a firebrick at the bottom of the kitchen trash can; otherwise, she’d pull it over and rummage through the contents.
There was the time she lit her tail on fire, and the occasions where she went spelunking in dark corners of the basement and came back reeking, requiring a bath. When wet, she became about the size of a squirrel.
She loved to sit on the back of my husband’s chair. It gave her access to his head. We don’t have any videos of her molesting my bun until it came apart, but she liked to sit on the back of my computer chair and rub chin and cheeks on it, drooling, until she had it unknotted. (yes, that’s me laughing in the video)
x YouTube VideoBut there were fleas, and she was old, and quite suddenly today her gallant heart gave up the fight. Good night, my princess, with your coat like silk floss, and your small purr, and your dominance. I’ll miss you, pretty girl.