Boxer in May 1998. A new member of the family.
Shortly after I got out of bed to take a walk this morning, Boxer scampered into the living – from where, I have no idea – and started meowing persistently.
”Want to go outside, Trina?” I asked, using the nickname I came up with a few years ago. (From Boxerina. To Boxerina the Trina Machina. To Trina Marina McSheena. Don’t ask me where these names come from. They just seem to pop out of my mouth during fits of nonsense rhyming.)
A rhetorical question, of course.
Even at 13, Boxer still enjoys spending the night outside. We know of other cats in the neighborhood who are given occasional free rein, a few of them even showing up in our yard.
“Trina, it looks like one of your buddies is here,” I call out whenever I see a feline visitor.
Cold weather generally doesn’t deter her. She balks only when there’s a covering of snow, surveying the ground through the glass of the storm door as though it’s a mystery of cat life she just can’t figure out.
This morning Boxer was ready to return indoors at the end of my walk. Once inside she started meowing fretfully.
“Don’t worry. I just filled your water dish,” I assured her.
That’s consistently one of her main complaints.
The sniveling continued, though, and when I walked into the living, Boxer was looking at the upholstered chair where JoAnna reads the newspaper each weekday morning before taking a shower. It’s Boxer’s habit to jump up on JoAnna’s lap during this quiet time.
“Ahh, Trina, your mama’s not here this morning,” I cooed. “I guess she’s deserted you,” I added in a more playful, almost taunting voice.
No wonder she’ll have nothing to do with me.
Boxer is most definitely a mama’s girl. In fact, JoAnna is the only person in the world she really likes and will allow to get close to her.
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