My sweet girl has been with me a long while now. Blanche is fourteen. She is no longer a playful kitten, but she still loves a sunny spot to land and a cool drink of water straight from the faucet. She enjoys her treats and her purée, and she dutifully takes her thyroid medicine—skillfully hidden in her food—without complaint.
She has never bitten, nor scratched. Blanche is gentle, and very much like Blanche DuBois, she depends upon the kindness of others.
My Aunt Bren named her.
She called me one morning, very early, as I was on my way to work. There was a white kitten, she said—“flea-ridden and pitiful”—and she didn’t know what to do.
I told her not to worry. Put her in a box with some water, and I would come after work to get her.
There was never a question. I had to help this cat.
So off to the vet we went. Blanche received a clean bill of health and, as it turned out, was not nearly as flea-ridden as Aunt Bren had feared. We bonded on the way. She sat on my shoulder and nuzzled my neck, content just to be held.
I knew then she was my cat.
Later, when Aunt Bren asked about names, I told her I wasn’t sure. She suggested Blanche, because the kitten looked as though she had been blanched—so white and soft.
And so Blanche joined our family.
I don’t know how long I’ll have her, but she is cared for and treasured in every way. I enjoy her companionship just as much now as I did all those years ago.
Sometimes a writer needs a furry familiar.
Sometimes a kitty just needs a home.