Who knew that Bea would warm up so to the paparazzi? As a matter of policy, Bea trusts no-oneâ€”not even me. (Just because I haven’t yet brandished a chainsaw at her, doesn’t mean it’s not on today’s to-do list.) She demonstrates her affection from a distance. If I’m on the bed knitting, she sits across the room from me, stretched out comfortably and purring. If I’m reading in the backyard, she curls up beneath some bushes, once again purring. But when Melissa and I started taking photos this weekend, she just went all lovey-dovey on us.
She allowed us to look at her.
She rolled about coquettishly in front of us.
She started giving nuzzles to random inanimate objects.
She may be paranoid, but apparently she’s also aware of the value of good P.R.
Although her undercoat is grey, to look at Bea is black, black, black. Outdoors on a sunny day, she seems like a little tear in the fabric of the space-time continuum, resembling nothing so much as nothing itself.
She’s just six years old at present. I have great hopes that she’ll become more of a lap cat as she ages. I would love to feel the weight of her all calm and solid on my legs and to run my hand over her back again and again. For now, I mostly content myself with looking.