Nermal

Ever since 1995, we’ve had a furball. She doesn’t eat much, and her tail is thicker than she is. I attempted to name her Garfield, but mother insisted that was a boy’s name. Thus, I settled for Nermal, insisting on using a name from the Garfield comic strip (though mother still hasn’t figured out that Nermal is the name of a male kitten). Watching her clean herself, snub shredded turkey cat food and desiring vanilla ice cream, vomit on the carpet over and over, and want to share kitty-nuzzling affection when’m wearing my prom dress was sometimes a tad obnoxious. Pets can be that way.

Yet, when I walked in the door last night after a long day of driving and seeing old friends, Nermal ran towards me making a noise that reminded me of a lonely canine whimper. She wouldn’t get off of my lap once I sat down as a matter of fact. She’s hated me for a solid 8 years, until I left for college. I don’t think that cats love you only when you feed them, because I’m never home to feed her.

The best part about owning a cat is just watching it relax when a sunbeam is on a carpeted floor. Watching Nermal stretch and appear as though she’s trying to reach for the sun can be more soothing than meditation in the dorms.

If she can tolerate me and all of my faults, how can I not feel the same? Thanks, Nermal.