Scarlet

Last year I brought home a cat. A friend of mine, a girl I used to work with back at one of my crappier jobs (bad job, great coworkers) fostered cats, and had one remaining from a litter. The wife and I drove out to Buffalo where we met the perpetually terrified kitten named Scarlet.

No really. She had to be caught before we could bring her home. Once home, I had to almost dump her out of the carrier just so she'd know where the litter box was. For the first few weeks she taught us where all the best hiding places in the house were. If you were the size of a cat, anyway. Eventually we learned them and figured out what doors needed to stay shut to keep her out of the ceiling and walls. The food was being eaten, and the litter was being used. That was the only clue I had that she was still in the house.

From there, she would hide if you were in the room with her. If someone found her, she would make a break for it. For awhile my wife joked about renaming her 'ghost' because she would haunt the place.

My kids all wanted a cuddly cat, but I was not going to give up on this little one. Eventually she stopped hiding all the time. She started poking her head out more and more. Then she stopped running so fast. When I was stuck home after my surgery, she actually walked right up to me on the couch.

She probably thought I was dead, but I counted it as a win.

Now, a year later, she just walks around the house like a normal cat. She'll poke her paws into the basket full of her toys, sometimes she'll find the bag of treats and carry it out, meowing at my son to open it for her.

My wife, meanwhile, is the clear winner.