(feline companion of Ashley of NYCrochet)
I adopted Kizzy when he was four months old and I was foolishly attempting a Master's in literature. The woman at the shelter told me his sister had just been adopted the day before. He was so affectionate, rubbing up against my hand through the bars and begging to be held. I took him right away, but it took me weeks to name him (His adoption papers listed his name as "Jasmin"). When the little girl next door to me suggested "Kizzy," it sounded like nonsense. A few days later I was watching "Roots" for a class on slavery in literature. One of the characters was named Kizzy. It was too much to ignore, so Kizzy he was.
People often mistake Kizzy for a dog at first glance. He weighs about 25 lbs- not unusual for his breed, which is at least part Maine Coon. My boyfriend tells me Kizzy is the strangest cat he's ever known, and he may be right. He loves to be carried around like a baby, and is happiest with his nose in my ear or licking my face. When he wants my attention, he'll hit my nose with his paw. He taught himself to play fetch with drinking straws, though he tires of it quickly now that he's older. He often sits up on the couch like he's waiting for a beer and the remote. He lets me dress him in ridiculous collars and put rubber caps on his nails.
He's not a perfect cat. He's chewed his way through several expensive iPod chargers, as well as speaker wires and a cell phone charger, and he tends to forget his size when jumping across tables and other furniture. Despite all my efforts to keep rubber bands out of the house, he somehow finds them, eats them, and throws them up at three in the morning. Still, I love him, warts and all (and he does have a wart right next to his eye, which I've often considered coloring in with a Sharpie), and he makes an excellent pillow after a hard day.