Meet Butch. She is my sidekick. Also known as my schweetie, my nemesis, my little one, the bane of my existence, and my reason for living.
She just turned two and has stayed fairly small, much to my liking. I would prefer it if she’d stayed a mere babe, but such is life.
I got her at school from a group of boys who’d originally though their stray cat was a boy. They named it Arnie. A few weeks later, they noticed Arnie was getting a little tubby. One fateful night, Arnie bore 7 beautiful kitties.
Arnie retained her masculine name.
I got zee pick of the litter and chose the absolute smallest poopster I could find. I have a thing for tiny kitties. We went through a variety of names, but finally settled on Butch–named after a particularly curmudgeonly man who worked in one of the college dining halls. He was short, gray and furry, just like our little kitty.
We also thought Butch was a boy for the first month of her life. She, like her mother, kept her macho title. She seems to enjoy it.
Outfitted in her very own holiday sweater! And oh-so happy about it! …right?
February 2010 (aka mid-Snowpocalypse):