Stanley

There is a new presence lurking around the Turbopalace. Stanley (so-named because he was born in tool box) was rescued from my the barn at my friend Nutmeat's mom's farm. He is awfully friendly, which was a problem at first, because he smelled like a walking cow pie. Here is a photo of him looking at me suspiciously, because he knows that I am about to give him a nice sudsy bath.

I don't know if he's going to be a keeper. To tell you the honest truth, of all the cat breeds and colors, black-and-whites have always had low initial draw for me (Millie, Blanche, Sidney, Bonita-- I'm sorry! Don't take this personally!). I've always been most attracted to wild-ish looking (and behaving) cats, preferably with spots or stripes. Perhaps this is partly my own uneasiness-- people always make fun of men with cats, but this can be somewhat ameliorated if the cat looks like his dad might have been a tiger. Black-and-white cats, on the other end of the spectrum, look very cosmopolitan, proper, and well-dressed. They are the metrosexuals of the domestic feline world. They don't frighten people. They barely frighten mice. (At least, this is all my prejudiced impression.)

From a physical standpoint, my ideal companion would be one of these "jag cats" from a breeder in Florida.
But they are absurdly expensive. Maybe I could get one as a friend for Stanley someday, though.