When I was a brand new teacher, my childhood cat came to live with us. She had a variety of medical issues that required us to dose her with laxatives and pain pills, and she had to sit on a lap or she would yowl - Mr Z tested this once, she yowled for three hours. In January, she died. I was devastated, having had her in my life since I was 12. I took the day off school to mourn, having discovered her lifeless body curled up on the sofa and realised that, for the first time, she WASN'T just pretending to be asleep when I crept up on her.
Anyway.
I missed a year 11 lesson that day, and shortly after, one of my year 11s approached me about taking on a kitten. "I'd like you to have her, Miss," she said. "You were so sad when your old cat died."
The day I brought her home I was driving a rental car, after someone had driven into the back of me, and I rolled it into the back of another car on a hill because I was too busy looking at her. An auspicious start.
Here we are, getting on for 14 years later. She still likes that chair, but mostly sleeps on the back of it now, where she can catch the heat from the radiator. She's grumpy and almost blind. But she is our mitten.
FEET.
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