9 hours ago
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Molly is not the most friendly or trusting of cats. Most of her time is spent hiding in the basement or under a bed. She flies up and down the stairs so fast she looks like a yowling gray banshee.
The only person she trusts to touch her is me, which makes Ethan so sad. "Why doesn't she like me?" he asks. "It's not you, she's just skittish," I say. "A skittish pain in the butt," says my husband.
But Ethan wouldn't give up on Molly. Every morning when she bolted out of her basement lair, he'd wait for her in the living room. I told him to sit still and hold his hand out. She'd usually run by him. But I guess his persistance paid off, because one morning last week she skidded to a stop in front of him and rubbed her head against his hand. "She's so soft!" Ethan said. Then, like a hummingbird off to the next flower, she was gone.
Maybe Terry's glares were getting to Molly, and she felt like she better expand her circle of friends to keep on living here. Whatever is her finicky reason to give in to Ethan, it meant the world to him.
Posted by Cathy at 3:36 PM