A year and a bit ago a terrified ball of slightly worn out fluff ran into the garage bay, through the old show room and hid under my desk at work. Turns out, it was a 10 or so week old kitten, slightly scrawny and not doing so hot. We promptly adopted her – it had been sufficient mourning time since Sam, our Siamese, had gone on – and named her Ro after the Star Trek character.
She still has what we call feline PTSD. Noises and rapid motions terrify her and she’s slow to warm up. She looks for nooks and crannies to hide in. She did plump up and turn into a really beautiful calico with a nice little chirp. Sometimes she unwinds enough to do the regular cat stuff and chase strings, socks and laser pointers.
You really could not have picked a more different cat than the cheerful and outgoing Seven, the other cat in our household.