Chipotle is not for everyone.
He was an unprepossessing kitten, the runt of the litter and so wary he couldn’t be lured out for canned food even when Mama Cat and his three siblings were comfortably digging in. He was a sickly kitten, eyes alternately oozing and crusted shut, breath rattling through his lungs, prone to sneezing fits that looked like seizures. While the other kittens romped and played, Chipotle sat in the bushes with his nose pressed to the garage wall. I didn’t think he was long for this world.
He’s one year old now, and he’s still no great beauty. He’s lopsided. He didn’t form quite right in the womb, the vet says. One side of his face is noticeably smaller than the other side. His eyes are a little too wide apart, and the small one droops. He has one normal nostril and one tiny nostril, which makes him perpetually wheezy. He doesn’t have enough eye or enough nose, but he has been blessed with an abundance of whiskers. Long, lush whiskers grow in the right places, but he also has a stumpy row growing up the side of his nose. One little whisker grows right out the tip of his nose. His mouth curls up on his smaller side, giving him a perpetual sneer. One ear is a little smaller than the other.
Don’t get too attached, the vet warned me. His internal organs may not develop properly. He’ll probably have a very short life.
But it was too late. I had already fallen in love with his funny face.
Chipotle is not for everyone.
He is an intense little cat. He has no internal sensor letting him know how hard is too hard when it comes to biting and scratching. All of his wild siblings have figured out that humans are delicate and don’t do well with teeth and claws. They have all learned to modulate a playful bite, to keep claws partially retracted, to nibble rather than gnash. Not Chipotle. Chipotle is a love biter and a play biter, and he chomps down hard, punctures skin, inserts all of his claws as deeply as they will go, and tries to rip flesh from bone. Several times a week I have to call for help to pry his jaws open and squeeze his claws out of my arm when I can’t shake him on my own. There is no ill will, no mean spirit. He is simply a cat, doing cat things. Once unhinged and unhooked, he is all about the snuggles and smoochies.
Chipotle is not for everyone.
He is affectionate and loving—but only with me and only when he feels like it and only in the way that he wants. When he doesn’t want love, he’ll dip his body so his belly drags on the floor to avoid the stroke of my hand down his back. When he does want love, I have to drop everything and hold him. He has a meow like glass breaking, and he is not shy about using his claws to pull me down to his level. He has very specific requirements. He only wants to be held on the kitchen floor or on the bathroom rug, and only if I’m sitting cross-legged or with my knees tucked under me. He wants my arms in a circle so that he can climb up, curl into a half moon, and be cradled as he rests. He likes to be told how very beautiful he is and how very beloved he is. He tilts his head up and closes his little wonky eyes and seems to smile. He’s very accepting of forehead and cheek kisses and sometimes tries to press his face right into my mouth to get closer. At night, he sleeps on my pillow with his cheek pressed to mine.
Chipotle is not for everyone. But he is for me.
the dirigible plum 
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