My sister now has a cat named “Sneakers”.
Thankfully I had on a thick shirt earlier when speaking to Mr. Sneakers as he decided to launch himself from the floor, ang on my shirt, and then lay down in my arms.
He has awhile to go before he is at Fred levels.
Ferd was born that way.
“F F F Ferd, Ferd Ferd, have you heard the word? Ferd is the word....”
I was ten or twelve; standing in a neighbor’s backyard when my cat strolled by. I had scarcely scooped her up in my arms when the neighbor’s dog barked...
...once...
...all 35 pounds of her...
...from around the corner of the house...
...on her chain...
...more than fifty feet away.
My cat paid me the dubious compliment of declaring me her only worldly rescuer by making a world-record, claw-enhanced scramble up to the top of my body like a hound-chased ‘coon rocketing up a lodgepole pine where she crouched bug-eyed, fur on-end, grappling hooks embedded in my scalp like a calico ushanka with the ear-flaps turned up.