Izzy
Though my allergy
to cats has made me despise most of them, there is one cat on Earth that I can
tolerate. Her name is Isabelle, or Izzy, for short.
My animal-loving
aunt Victoria adopted Izzy five years ago, when she was just a little kitten
clawing at the small Pet Smart cage. Victoria instantly fell in love with
Izzy's black and grey stripes, white paws that look like mittens, tiny pink
nose, and piercing green eyes. Even with my disliking for cats, Izzy is okay.
For a feline.
Now that I've just
seen Izzy again for the first time in two years, I think I have a new found
respect for her. She's strong, and a true predator at heart. I can see it in
when she pounces onto her seat in front of the kitchen window, flicking her
tail back and forth. And if disdainful cats can portray emotion, Izzy can. She
wants to be outside more than anything.
Her eyes search the
backyard for mice, squirrels, chipmunks, and birds, and as soon as she does spot
one, I can tell by her stance that she is thoroughly irritated that all that separates
her from the wild kingdom of her dreams is a thin sheet of glass. So simple,
but also unbreakable.
She sticks her nose
up to being petted, and she hates to be cuddled. She doesn't want to drink
filtered water out of a dish or eat dry, processed food, or be kept in a safe,
cozy house. She longs to hunt, to dig her claws into her prey's flesh. She
wants to live in a new domain where Danger is king and Wilderness is his queen.
So I don't disturb
Izzy, and she leaves me alone, as well. However, I do have respect for her. And
ironically enough, I think I'm the only one that understands her.