Actually, we scream for Gelato, too – though in his case, it’s all over but…well, the screaming.
I’m fully convinced that, if the American southeast really wants to amp up their summertime tourism, they have the perfect tool in their natural arsenal: southern cats.
The Eight Belles. The sweet Kentucky angels. And, now, the West Virginians. There is just something about cats from south of the Mason-Dixon line: every southern crew we’ve seen has been both swoony and sweeter-than…well, sweeter than ice cream.
So it was only fitting that the pint-sized tabby siblings from West Virginia should be dubbed with the smooth, frosty monikers of Gelato and Sorbet. Not one to be left out of this festival of deliciousness, their marmalade buddy immediately traded the vaguely-feminine name “Sunshine” for the juicier OJ.
The West Virginians’ first order of business upon arriving at Tabby’s Place was giving and getting hugs. Spiderman can’t rival this trio’s grip. Sorbet, in particular, made a fine art of wrapping her little paws around any human neck with all her might, big round eyes flashing. I’d never played this particular game before, but Sorbet made me an instant fan of “let’s see if I can get 100% of myself in contact with your self.”
As much as they loved human beans, the West Virginians were equally intent on…um, loving each other. Little Sorbet and Gelato were only six months old, but that’s old enough for parenthood in the kitten world. So as to spare her the shame of carrying her own brother’s kittens, we spayed Sorbet (and neutered Gelato) straight away.
Oh, but Gelato, we hardly knew ye. Before his quarantine period had even concluded, Gelato’s sweetness enamored a visiting family. In a flash, Sorbet was an only child – and, to be completely honest, loving it.
Now, I’m no expert on sibling stuff. As an only child myself, I can only imagine how sweet it would be to have a brother or sister with whom you’re closely bonded (albeit not quite so closely as Sorbet and Gelato). Still, our little tabby treat didn’t waste an instant grieving her brother’s adoption. Less cats = higher ratio of humans to fawn on Sorbet. The girl knows her math.
“She’s not going to be here long.” How many times did we say that during Sorbet’s quarantine? How many adopters looked at her tiny face and felt her intense hug?
Now that OJ’s been adopted, little Sorbet is the last of the West Virginians at Tabby’s Place. Our tiny girl is living it up in Suite B, where she is both the youngest and the springiest cat, armed with tightly-coiled invisible slinkies on the ends of her feet.
There’s a family out there born to love Sorbet’s sweetness and to revel in her bounce.
But until Famiglia Sorbet arrives, we’ve got a whole lot of hugging – and bouncing – and screaming to do. 🙂