It’s Trixie’s 12th birthday! (Technically it was Wednesday, but I forgot until Thursday and we’re celebrating tomorrow — shhh, I don’t think she’ll know the difference). On October 10, 2001, I picked up a scrawny little black cat from the Humane Society in Rochester Hills, Michigan and had no idea what I was getting myself into. She quickly went from scrawny to pleasantly plump to, um, VERY pleasantly plump, and quickly stole my heart. She’s a complete terror and a complete joy. My friends used to come over to visit her more than me, and they have always said if any cat will learn how to speak or how to use fire, it will be Trixie. She can open any door or drawer, and I’m pretty sure she can pick locks and hotwire a car.
With her little tiny tail and her little tiny head and her not-so-tiny body, sometimes you just have to laugh at Trixie. Plus she has personality for days. Anyone who says cats don’t have personalities is nuts. Trixie has more character in that little rat tail of hers than a lot of people I know, and she’s more entertaining than TV … when she’s awake. At 12 years old, Trixie now spends most of her time sleeping, but she still absolutely loves to dig through her toy chest to pull out her favorite toy — or two or three. The rest of her waking moments are spent hating our other cat Mocha and asking if it’s dinner time.
When Andy started hanging around, it took her about a year to warm up to him, and I’ve been known to even get a little teary when I look at how much she loves him now. For all her fiestiness, Trixie is painfully shy with strangers and fiercely loyal to me. I probably sound kinda crazy for saying it, but Trixie is pretty much my best friend, my little baby, and I’m so happy I walked into that Humane Society 11-1/2 years ago to bring this crazy furball into my life.