2024 proved tumultuous for Sir Walter Scott.
In June, our fluffy tabby lost his best friend when our senior cat, Thor, died. Their friendship wasn’t reciprocal. Thor tolerated Walter at best, but Walter seemed convinced they were best friends. When we didn’t bring Thor home from his final vet visit in June, Walter paced the house searching for him.
A few weeks later, we went to see our grandkids in Ohio. Though family members take good care of our cats when we travel, I worried about Walter. He’d never been alone.
He seemed happy to see us when we returned, but then a contractor began working on my home office. As soon as Tim walked in the door, Walter went under our bed where he stayed, coming out only to eat and for cuddles and treats in the evening after Tim left.
His next stressor came with the arrival of a 2-pound black and white kitten we named Freya Charlotte. After a few days, Walter adjusted the Tuxedo tornado’s company, even allowing her to curl up next to him. He continued to hide under our bed for hours, so Freya gamely joined him for naps.
Then we noticed bumps on his chin. When they continued to spread, I took him to the vet.
Diagnosis: feline acne. This benign condition can have several possible causes, but the only one that seemed to apply to Walter was stress. As for the antibacterial wipes I used to treat it, Walter could hear me unscrewing the lid from across the house and would dive under the bed before I got close enough to swipe his chin.
Thankfully, all is well with Walter now. His acne cleared, and he’s back to sleeping on top of our (his) bed instead of underneath it. Freya is almost always beside him. Actually, we should have named her after the Biblical Ruth, who famously told her mother-in-law, “Where you go, I will go, and where you lodge, I will lodge.”
Wherever Walter goes, Freya follows, though at 7 months, she’s getting good at coming up with solo adventures.
She’s next level when it comes to parkour. For those unfamiliar, parkour involves several movements, including running, jumping, climbing, vaulting and rolling, all aimed at traversing obstacles and moving from one point to another in the most efficient way.
I doubt that efficiency is her goal. She simply loves leaping and bouncing from one height to the next. She takes a running leap from the floor, bounces off the kitchen counter, skims the dining room table, and lands on the loveseat. She does this multiple times a day.
“She needs a cape,” Derek said. “I bet they sell them at PetSmart.”
Over the holidays, we discovered Freya is an accomplished sheep poacher.
A Play-Doh manger scene always has a place of honor on top of the piano at Christmas. Our son Alex made it when he was in kindergarten. This year, every morning, I’d find the tiny cotton ball sheep on the floor, in the bedroom, or in a closet.
Derek caught Freya tiptoeing (tippawing?) atop the piano, weaving amid fragile objects, her eye on the lone sheep.
One morning, we woke up, and it was gone for good. And no, I did not sift through the litter box looking for it.
We’ve raised four sons, but I no longer need to wonder what kind of dad Derek would have been to a daughter.
Last week, I heard him yelling, “Freya! You get off that refrigerator right now!”
A few seconds later, “No! Freya! Do NOT chew that cord!”
All was quiet for a bit, but I could hear him murmuring. I walked into the kitchen to see Freya in her cat tree basket and Derek stroking her head and rubbing her cheeks.
“You’re still a baby, aren’t you? You’re just a little baby girl, yes you are!”
He wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.
“Well she is,” he said.
Then he turned his attention back to the kitten.
“Aren’t you Freya? Aren’t you just a little baby girl?
I can’t swear to it, but I’m almost certain that cat was smiling as she closed her eyes.
Cindy Hval 