Frack to His Frick

I would be remiss in my duties, after having introduced Archie, if I failed to give his twin sister, Charlotte, her due. Not that she comes as an afterthought; Charlotte is the sweetest little catface that ever there was.

Archie and Charlotte were born on Memorial Day 2000; they were, respectively, the highest-strung and the lowest-key of a litter of four. My ex-husband and I chose them; he selected Archie and I Charlotte. She was the little goofball who couldn't stop chasing her own tail around.

They were about this size when we first got them:

Archie (with the symmetrical Eddie Munster markings) was on the right; Charlotte (who boasts the "eye patch") was on the left. If the paper holder to Charlotte's left, which held 8.5 x 11" sheets of paper, helps you gauge their size, you can see that they were tiny little squidgens -- about 2.5 lbs. each. They each fit in a single hand.

Fortunately, as they've grown in girth, their energy levels have diminished proportionately. They used to bounce off the walls of the apartment, chasing one another around. Archie usually caught Charlotte, tackled her, and, er, mounted her (cat incest!); eventually she'd get sick of it, his at him, and take a good swipe at his nose. Served him right. (We've since gotten them fixed and declawed, so thankfully there's a lot less sibling-humping going on chez nous.)


Charlotte was a dainty, twee little thing. She was as sweet as Archie was malcontent, and as aloof as he was needy. For the first three and a half or so years I had her, she was also really small. She always ate, but couldn't keep food down, and didn't get much bigger than five pounds, even as Archie waxed lithe and muscular. And then, one day, after the latest round of treatment for her gastric distress, she stopped puking and started growing.

Charlotte now outweighs her brother by a good two pounds, clocking in at thirteen and change. She's built like a cross between a T-Rex and Jabba the Hut -- stubby arms sticking out from a whole lotta furry belly. She is the picture of lethargy, a veritable heat-seeking missile. Eighty-five percent of the day, Charlotte can be counted on to be snoozing somewhere warm. I think she spends the other fifteen percent eating.

Rubenesque and slow-witted though she may be (Charlotte bought her stupid at a two-for-one sale, I think), she is a huge sweetie. Charlotte doesn't demand anything. She just exists. She occasionally wants to be combed, but if I don't have the energy, that's okay. She'll sell her soul for a bite of any table scrap within reach, but won't pout or act out if she's not given any. On those rare occasions where she'll curl up with me (only me; she's a one-person cat), it makes my whole week.

Not too much else to tell. Like Archie, she'll likely show up in my stories from time to time. Charlotte isn't the squeaky wheel in my household, but not a day goes by that she doesn't make me smile. The cat who answers to a thousand (stupid, nonsensical) nicknames -- Mishu, Shrimpkin, Shrimp Toast, Squeezle, Wombat, Little Girlface, Chicken Butt, Baby Chickenhead, Meep, and, my favorite, Captain Baby Jumbo Shumai -- may not have much going on upstairs, but she is pure, unadulterated goodness, and my life is better for having her in it.