Let me introduce Clover, I can't explain why I haven't before now. My only explanation is this. She thinks she is a debutante. Most young ladies of that world are introduced to society at a cotillion, making an entrance in full dress regalia down stairs of marble. It is an event riff with all the pomp and circumstance that befits their closed society.
Consider this post Clover's Ball. Right now she is alternately laying in my lap while I write and biting my chin when she feels the need. Her breath stinks. I can guarantee it. The picture above is her, after eating a hole in a paper grocery sack, and popping out of that hole. She has added a lot of joy to our humble abode, despite the lost sleep and smelly poo.
She is named after the horse in George Orwell's Animal Farm. Clover, the horse, is the engine that keep the farm running under a violent and irreverent totalitarian dictatorship. Clover, the cat, has none of those responsibilities. She lives not in the harsh world of totalitarian society, but more like a benevolent oligarchy, where she has nearly equal say in the daily household operations as Dacia or I. Such is the life of a cat.
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