Once upon a time, in a parking lot not so far away, a cardboard box lay nestled under a tree with “Free to a good home” scrawled on the side.
No harm in walking over and taking a peek, I thought.
Kittens. Barely 6 weeks old if they’re a day. What’s wrong with that one? His fur sticks straight out like he put his nose to a light socket. Obviously, he’s the runt of the bunch, too. And what color is that? Is he … pink? His nose, his fur, his skin — everything on him — is pink.
He looks like a scared Easter egg. What a pitiful sight!
Now, I should probably give you some backstory here on a couple of fronts. First, for as long as I can remember, if it barks, meows, nays, bleats or chirps, I’ve wanted to bring it home and feed it.
“It can sleep at the end of my bed!” was my endless childhood plea to my mother. My poor mother. Oh, what I dragged home to her over the years.
Second, while mainstream America looks for the ideal unblemished widget, I tend to fall for the mismatched, broken-eared thingamajig on the clearance rack. I take home the colorless betta fish lying sideways in his little vat of gray water. The nativity with sheep whose heads are too large for their bodies and with a red squirrel by baby Jesus. Bless their hearts. They need me.
And so begins the story nearly eight years ago of how one scrawny, flea-infested, ringworm-laden, perpetually-fluffed pink kitten later named Floyd (a la Pink Floyd) came to turn my household upside down.
I’ve owned a lot of pets over the years, or rather, a lot of pets have owned me. But I’ve never, not once, encountered anything remotely like Floyd. His peculiarities know no bounds.
It took about a year before his hair would finally lay down. The vet was fascinated by his coloring. She said he was a “Cameo” domestic short-hair and that most often, the color reverts to orange, but occasionally, the pinkish hue remains, softening over time to more of a tan.
Floyd was the latter. In the right light, he’s still true to his name.
I initially thought Floyd to be dim-witted, but over time, I’ve learned he’s truly brilliant. If he would only funnel that brilliance into something – anything – productive, rather than annoying, he’d be … well, he wouldn’t be Floyd.
Floyd unscrews lamp shades. This is impressive, but irritating at 3 a.m. He bites the edge of the shade and spins it until the finial comes off, which in turn, makes the shade come off, generally followed by the entire lamp crashing to the floor.
Every morning. At 3 a.m. You can set your watch by it.
It took him just more than four years to successfully slay beyond repair every shaded lamp in the house. Now, floor lamps and ceiling fixtures light our abode.
And regardless of the event, Floyd’s expression never changes. Ever. Happy, sad, pain, pleasure, he maintains the exact same blank countenance.
Even when he’s on fire.
Yes, Floyd likes fire.
When his tail began to smolder from a candle on the coffee table, Floyd’s only reaction was to sniff the air and look toward me, saying, “You smell that?”
I doused his tail and bought a hurricane lantern for the candle, into which he promptly stuck his head and singed all the whiskers and eyebrows on his right side. Now, it’s only battery-operated candles around the little pyromaniac.
Floyd opened every lever-handled door in our old house, which is to say, every door. Until moving into our new nest, I’d not gone to the bathroom at home by myself in seven years.
These are but mere glimpses of the wonders that are Floyd. He terrorizes overnight guests. He loves bubble baths. And fishing him out of every door, drawer, cabinet, closet, washer, dryer and fireplace has become second nature to me.
He’s my little shadow. My frustrating, destructive, happy-go-lucky, snuggles at dawn, loves unconditionally, little pink shadow.
I guess it’s good we don’t have to wait until we have it all together in order to be loved.
My nativity with the large-headed sheep and red squirrel has been packed away for another year. As I write, bettas swim in their sparkling tanks on my desk. Baxter is stretched across my feet and Floyd is sitting in the kitchen, pondering the workings of the pocket doors in our new loft.
Mysterious. They have no handles, yet somehow they open.
He’ll figure it out. At 3 a.m.
LISA KELLEY IS A WRITER, MASTER GARDENER, ANIMAL LOVER AND ALL-AROUND GOOD OL’ SOUTHERN GAL WHO ALSO HAPPENS TO PRACTICE LAW AND MEDIATE CASES IN DOWNTOWN BENTONVILLE.