Acadia

Long story short, I changed my mind. Long story long, Acadia, the 10-week-old Maine Coon mix formerly known as Roxy, moved in late Monday night, a development about which I will not wax poetical, nor even paranormal, though I certainly could do both. Suffice it to say that she’s perfect in every way. Every single way. So perfect, in fact, that I’ve decided not to take away her claws. Instead, I’ve ordered two very nice sisal scratching posts. The brocade wingback, the corduroy sofa and I have chosen to be cautiously optimistic.

I named her Acadia partly in recognition of her Maine Coon component and partly because that place, Acadia National Park on Mount Desert Island in Maine, has become for me a sort of Mecca. As soon as she’s harness trained and thoroughly road worthy, I’ll take her there and she and I will sit together on the rocks and watch the waves explode around us. Cats don’t usually do such things, I know, but she will because she’s channeling Ginger and Ginger doesn’t know the meaning of fear. (Sorry. I said that I wouldn’t wax paranormal, didn’t I?)