no hissssssy fits here

There's new blood in Queenie's hood.

I happened upon two cat-food tins beneath the bushes during building ground rounds the other day. I nearly picked 'em up for disposal till a creature caught my eye.

This kitty's 40 percent fine bones and tissues and 60 percent fur.

And a rubber, my oh my! Rubbing against the stoop. Twisting and turning on the sidewalk.

Brushing against my calf. Creating friction against the parking block.

Constantly rubbing.

Mercurial. Continuous motion. Rarely resting. And never ever allowing a straight-on  head shot. Like a member of one of those cultures that believe that taking a photogragh steals part of the soul.

Each attempt I made to capture a facial frontal, each occasion I thought I got it,  I'd find instead a photo of the head at an angle or a body in motion.

I must've taken about 30 pictures and not one turned out! Outta sheer frustration I lifted the tiny frame into my arms and quickly took the shot before she weaseled her way out.

Even the name of this nervous Nelly reigned elusive. Freddie, as in Freddie Mercury from Queen? Hmmm. Louise? Heloise? Elsa? Frannie, short for Francesca? Yes, not bad.

A major groomer. With all that fur, guess you gotta be.

All in all, a super-affectionate feline who connects, relates and rubs rubs rubs. Just don't try to zero in on her mug.

Soon thereafter I bumped into Queenie.

Such the different temperament! It's all about her. Thus, despite the arrival of the gentle and touchy-feely Frannie, there'll be no cat fight. Qeenie's secure in her reign, the master of her hood. And yours.

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