Sundance. So named, because the colour of his fur reminds me of the colour of Robert Redford’s hair, in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.
Angelic looking, isn’t he? The cat, not the actor. Hmmm … well, remember this. Appearances can be deceiving. I admit, he looks so sweet, like butter would melt in his mouth. And he is so elegant, he has such noble bearing. But he’s trouble. With a capital “t”. Yes, Trouble. Has been, since the day I got him. Just not happy unless he’s getting into mischief.
Like my others, he’s a rescue. When my first cat died, at 18, I contacted a rescue group in my neighbourhood, but they didn’t have any cats at the time. Then, about three months after I adopted one (the late, great, Miss Zazu, the diva to end all divas), the rescue called.
They’d found a very pregnant, feral, ginger female. They took her in, cared for her, and waited. It didn’t take long for her to have a litter. A huge litter. Sundance was one of six or seven teeny tiny ginger babies. I could come and pick one out, but would have to wait another month before I would be able to take my chosen kitten home with me. They were still far too young to be taken from their mother.
He was the cutest, bravest little thing I’d ever seen, making himself right at home the instant we walked through my front door. Even at two months old he didn’t let Zazu intimidate him, or boss him around. So she mothered him, instead. It also didn’t take him a nano second to figure out that he’d just landed in Nirvana. There was a Continue reading