One year ago this weekend, we brought home this tiny man:

He could fit in one hand.

And now he cuddles with Modernist poets.

I was extremely skeptical about Mr. Jinx for quite a while. For one thing, kittens are a pain in the butt, toes, fingers, and skin. Also occasionally ankles and elbows. For another, he was Not Boadie, and what I wanted was my Boadicea girl back.

He continues to be Not Boadie: the only things Jinx fears are outside and the car. He loves all people and disapproves of Alone Time. He doesn’t like the vacuum but doesn’t hide from it, either: he sits and watches me vacuum,  his ears swiveling in dislike.

I said my one criterion for a cat was that it be totally into me. Jinx is like Boadie in that he must always help me when I’m in the bathroom, and 9:00 is bedtime or I start getting Looks. But he clearly loves Dingo as much as he loves me, and he spends evenings moving from one lap to another, to ensure equal opportunity snuggling.

So I’m glad that he is himself. If he were too much like my old girl, I’d probably have become extremely weird about it. He is himself. A good friend.

(Though still kind of a pain in the butt.)