Ophelia was my roommate’s kitty. They came to live with me in 1988. She was called “that animal” and must have been abused though not in front of me. One night she decided it was my turn to provide bed space. Being a twirler, I did my first roll, Ophelia levitated and zoomed out of the room without touching the ground. I realized later she must have been afraid I was going to hit her. Once she realized the worst I’d do was cuddle she stuck around. The next thing I knew this little 8 pound cat had pushed me nearly over the edge of a queen size bed.
When my roommate and I both had to relocate I offered to trade “that animal” for my plants, explaining that I wasn’t very good with plants and she probably couldn’t take a cat on temporary assignment to Idaho. It worked and I got custody of a very loud, extremely loving little cat who was to bring joy to my life for the next 14 years.
O.P. was a talker with a voice like a 90 year old, alcoholic smoker. Friends visiting from Russia asked why my cat was so angry with me when they were confronted with her demands for conversation. Others were convinced she was an opera star in waiting. She would greet me each night, regaling me with the story of her day and asking how my day had been. Guests were to provide conversation for at least 20 minutes upon arrival or suffer her wrath.
Yesterday I had to put her down. It was an incredibly painful moment for me. I will always love her and will miss her terribly.
With all my heart,
| Ophelia |
| Lisa Jensen |