It’s gotta be hard, being Faye.
Face of an angel…
Cotton candy fur…
Eyes of utter innocence…
…soul of a friggin’ warrior.
You can’t blame humanity for jumping to conclusions about this cat. Everything about Faye shouts “holy entity of purest light.”
Everything…except her personality.
No, I’m not saying Faye isn’t a sweetheart — she is, of the sweeter-than-gingerbread variety.
But real gingerbread has a real bite, an edge, a zing…and our starry-eyed confection is no exception.
Like fellow Suite B chandelier-swinger Randy, Faye isn’t exactly fond of other cats. It’s not that she doesn’t like them. It’s just that she doesn’t like them in her time zone.
She’s no powder puff.
Snowball? More like a Christmas popper — loud, messy, unpredictable, so much fun. (“So much friggin, fun. Angela, say ‘friggin.'”)
Waiting for Santa? More like waiting to take out the Elf on the Shelf. (“I never trusted that guy. Angela, put that in there.”)
No, it’s not easy being Faye. It’s wonderful (belly rubs all day, humans paying homage and dribbling kisses). It’s satisfying (eighteen cats well-schooled in not messing with you, eighteen cats available to re-school as needed). But it’s not easy — because you need to constantly remind people that you are so very much more than just a pretty face. More, better, and much less expected.
Faye’s a lover. She’s a pearl of great price. But she’s also a lady of power and pride.
So go ahead. Go on believing she’s a simple snow angel.
Just don’t call her Susie Snowflake.
Photo credits from de top: Heather, Mark x2.