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wo cats. Zebra and Granola both from rescue. Granola’s the shy one. She’s a small cat with long whiskers that trail the ground. I call her my Victorian Lady. Granola doesn’t walk. She picks up her feet as though she doesn’t wish for them to get muddy. Dainty-like. She doesn’t care for loud noises, runs at the sound of a shut door, any sudden shaking of papers, and forget about a loud vacuum cleaner which sends her barreling out the pet door to remain beneath a car for the rest of the day. Actually, Granola is more of an outdoor cat. She prefers spending her time parked in front of my steps where she displays her adorable brown, white, and black belly, rolling over several times for anyone who will pet her. Everyone at the condo development knows Granola and uses words like adorable, friendly, and loving to describe her behavior. I’m a proud parent. But my neighbors have always had more of a relationship with Granola than I have. Part of the reason is that Zebra, my other cat, guards the concrete steps making it difficult for her to enter. Early on, I made a serious blunder in not getting them two separate litter boxes. Inside the house, Zebra rules. Granola does hers outside. But I no longer live at the condo where people regularly bend down to confer loving strokes upon my Granola. I now live in a house in a different neighborhood where she has only me to tell her how Zebra is not worth a single one of her hisses. Granola now hides beneath the chaise lounge and has found closets in which to disappear. Some cats never change. It’s the evening when I hear her soft meow and she hops on the bed and announces that she is ready to be admired.