Chicken's my first-born, and we celebrate our anniversary on February 1. We don't celebrate cat birthdays around here because, well, I don't know that information. I do know that I received her as a kitten for my birthday on Feb. 1, 2002. So that will do.
Chicken was christened B.J., a name that meant Britta, Jr. Britta was my childhood cat, and Chicken was intended to honor her memory. Well, that lasted about three-and-a-half days, until I started calling her Chicken. Because I wanted to. And there you have it.
I also frequently call her Mama Chuck. Mama Pollo. Chuckwagon. Chucker. Chicky. MAMA! You know, things of that nature. But it's Chicken to you. Thanks in advance.
Chicken likes to meow for mostly no reason. Or because she's hungry. Like me, only I don't actually meow, I just get really cranky. She sleeps by my side most nights, which makes me happy. She likes me best.
Her tail is short and twitchy, and she's terrified of the vacuum cleaner. And most things. Like people. And she usually eats so fast that she vomits. It's endearing, really.
She sheds like mad, and isn't much of a lap cat. When she does lay in your lap, it's sort of like Jesus Christ has risen. It's that magical. And you must take full advantage of the moment. The moment usually lasts about 48 seconds.
Harley was raised male, which explains a lot. She's actually female, despite what her paperwork states.
I wanted a boy cat. So when mom and dad picked up three siblings from a shelter, two boys and a girl, I demanded one of the boys. And was given Harley, for whom I promptly purchased a Harley-Davidson collar and with whom I continuously played rough and tumble. Because that's what you do with boys, right?
At the age of about three months, I realized, Harley has no testicles. "Mom," I asked, one evening on the phone, "what do cat testicles look like? Because Harley appears to be missing them."
Turns out, Harley was ball-less. A girl.
This is why, I believe, Harley is insane.
We celebrate our anniversary on August 1, because I received her as a kitten on Aug. 1, 2004. I got her because I wanted her. Needed, really. I needed two cats. How else would I accomplish my goal of owning my own cat farm?
Harley is mostly a slinky. A noodle, really. You could probably bend her into any feasible shape. And she probably wouldn't mind. She's an attention whore. Must be, at all times, in your way. Laying on your book, stomping on your boobs, sprawled across the floor in your path, as if to scream, "LOOK AT ME! I'm here! Me!"
I raised her well.
She doesn't meow often, but she makes what I can only describe as a growl. She detests the sound of crinkling paper, and freaks the hell out any time it occurs. She'll chase anything. Golf balls, string, feet, air. And when she sleeps, curled in a tight ball, it can only be looked upon as precious. Like a sleeping monster.
Because when she awakes, she'll be in your face. Probably chasing a shadow.