My model, Cleo, is neither young nor thin. She doesn't shave or wax or wear makeup. She diets only when forced to do so, and with great reluctance. She's your basic American Shorthair, with no illustrious pedigree. The only way in which she fits the supermodel stereotype is in her diva personality; she works when she wants to, and when she's tired of a photo shoot, she scratches me.
Miss Cat, as I frequently call her, launched her modeling career somewhat late in life. Her early life is unknown to anyone but her. When my parents and I adopted her from the local animal shelter, she was a fully-grown, skinny stray. Now, more than ten years later, she's a middle-aged kitty with a bit of a weight problem, a very loud voice, and a life of leisure. Though she is now quite famous, she has not let her career affect her; she's just as self-satisfied as she was when we brought her home from the shelter all those years ago.
Like most cats, she spends her days happily napping in various places, getting up to patrol her territory, eat, or request some petting. She used to do some hunting but is now retired. She's not an unusual cat by any appearances, but for years I've strongly suspected that in that little cat brain of hers she's smarter than most people.
And why not? One thing I've learned from working with animals, children, and developmentally disabled people is that there's a lot more going on in their minds than most people give them credit for. Just look at that cat and you can see she's something else.
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