I remember going to pick up Wally at someone’s house some time back in high school. He was tiny and adorable and very very vocal and we had to wait 3 more weeks for him to be weened before we could take him home. He was our first black cat in a long series of orange tabbies and the day we brought him home, he walked back and forth across the dashboard of my dad’s truck crying loudly.
Wally was not a snuggler. Not, at least, for the first three quarters of his life. He was active and curious, jumping on things, knocking things over, pooping in fun places for us to find later. He was not well-liked amongst our other two cats who were much older and obviously annoyed by him.
But Wally was fun to play with and entertaining to watch. I have no recallable memories of him sitting still or snuggle napping as a youngin’ at all. In fact, Wally died on his own a few days after realizing that his old body wouldn’t allow him to jump on the counter to drink from the faucet anymore.
But in his golden years, he learned how to snuggle. Sort of. He liked to climb up on shoulders, wrap himself like a stole around necks, and purr while his people chariot escorted him around the house.
I have lots of printed pictures of him jumping on things and rolling around but the only digital picture I have is below, climbing on my shoulder while I tried to use the computer. Note the claws.