CAMP & COMPANY

Can I tell you about Smalls?

Smalls is my cat.  Like, legitimately all mine (well, I share her kind of).

I thought that adopting a kitten would be a super rad idea since our old cat Tigger had just passed away, and our other cat Milo had been diagnosed with cancer shortly after my Dad.  I told everyone we needed some happiness and happiness is kittens, obviously. So I scoured the Vokra adoption site and found three contenders.  The top kitten on my list looked like this:

And was described as so:

“Skor is a sweet gentle little girl, the smallest of her litter and really stands out against 3 all-black siblings! She’s a beautiful tabby with flashes of orange. She’s an observer-of-life, likes to watch and wait before jumping in. When she’s in the mood, she enjoys a little belly rub. She’s very attached to her mama at this point and likes cuddles.”

I had found my winner.  

I had made an appointment for us to drive allllll the way out to North Vancouver to take a look at her at the end of August.  My Mum was supposed to go with me, but then this really awful thing happened: my Dad’s kidneys started to fail and he had to be rushed to the hospital.  So my Mum couldn’t go with me and I was told that this kitten was now all my responsibility.  

I kind of had a meltdown.  Kittens need a lot of attention and care.  You need a freaking village to raise a kitten.  You need a village to raise a kitten in a house with two older male cats and a massive yellow labrador.  I had no village.  

I called my better half at work, all sobby and shit, and he said “You can do it!” because he is my inspirational walking Nike ad for life.  So I packed up the kennel and I drove for an hour and half to find my little Torbie baby (that’s what they call her because she’s a tabby/tortoiseshell and it’s ridiculous but I love it).

She was living in the basement of her foster home with her black cat of a mother and her two fat black cat brothers.  They climbed up my legs.  There was no way I was taking them.

Smalls was really tiny.  Super tiny.  She had orange splotches on her chest and black spots on her paws.  She was perfect.  

I packed her up and ventured on to another house to fill in the paper work.  When I got back to the car, Smalls was incredibly angry.  She was trying to eat her way through the metal bars. And yelling. She yells so loud.  She did this for the two hour drive home.  I wanted to murder her.

Two weeks later my Dad came home from the hospital.  We had been using pictures of Smalls to encourage him to get better.  My Dad loved animals.  He had this fish tank with this massive algae eater that he adored.  He would rub it’s slimy algae eater nose every morning: “It’s not weird!  It feels like sand paper.”

When my Dad finally came home he was pretty weak.  He stayed in bed most of the time, but when we’d have to go out, he would shuffle down the hallway and plunk himself in the living room so he could watch Smalls.  We would come home to find them watching cooking shows together.

Within a few weeks of coming home, Smalls was finally big enough to hold her own in the house and didn’t have to spend her days in the living room jail anymore.  When we wouldn’t see her for stretches of time, we always knew where to find her - with my Dad.  She would be tucked into his side, both of them fast asleep.

Initially I named her Spotty Smalls, after my favourite Sandlot character Scotty Smalls, because she was so little and had all these orange splotches all over her.  Smalls isn’t so small now though.  She’s actually kind of huge. Smalls is smart.  She gives high fives and low fives.  She catches her food in her tiny little paws and shovels it into her mouth hamster-style.  She still loves a belly rub and will proudly show you her “tum-tum” any day.  Her fur is the softest thing on this planet; it’s like rabbit fur and chinchilla fur and cotton candy all rolled into one.  She is incredibly grumpy, but purrs this amazing popcorn popping purr the minute you talk to her.  Especially if you tell her she’s pretty.

That day back in August of 2012 I almost called the Rescue to tell them I couldn’t take her.  That things were… complicated and life was getting a bit too hard to deal with.  But that day I probably made one of the best decisions I have ever made. I mean, my Dad really loved that little cat. 

Smalls is not the first cat that I’ve had and she most certainly won’t be the last, but there is something really special about a tiny little creature who can make everyone around them forget about the horror that is occurring in their daily life.

Smallsy was our hope and our light, all covered in orange splotches and an outrageous sense of entitlement.