I don't even remember the night my Human tucked me down the front of her sweater and walked me up the street to my new home. I spent much of my first days on Glen Street hiding in one of the milk crates my Human used as a shelf for clothes - or so I am told.
Slowly but surely, I got used to being a kept cat. I showed my face more often every day, though loud noises and sudden movements still sent me scrambling for cover. I started enjoying the odd cuddle on my Human's lap, and before long, she started waking up in the morning to find me asleep on her pillow, my face resting on her neck. In time, I almost forgot that I'd ever been a stray.
My human told me later, once we were home and I'd been let out of my crate, that one of the vets asked, "War sie eine Straßekatze?" Was she a street cat? They say I learned the behaviour I showed at the vet today from my cat-mother. I was only a baby during my street cat days, but apparently we don't forget.
My human gave me a salmon stick and a chin rub and lined all my mice up in the door of my favourite cardboard box. I curled up on her shoulder and nuzzled into her hair. "I'm sorry, Pi-kins," she said. "We'll do better next time."