Every year I celebrate the day I got my little gray cat, Greta. I call it her French Fry Day because she was found, quite literally, under a pile of french fries at the St. Elmo Wendy’s. Local steampunk and horror novelist Cherie Priest had gone in to get some lunch with her husband when she realized the discarded gray mitten by the door was, in fact, a kitten badly in need of assistance. It was dingy and small, and one of its eyes was swollen shut.
Someone must have realized she was hungry and tried to help with their leftover fries, but didn’t make the connection that cats aren’t really into potatoes, especially small baby kittens abandoned by their mothers. A rushed visit to the vet, a Facebook post with a truly pathetic picture of the kitten, a few messages back and forth, and a few days later, Greta was all mine. On the appointed day, I went to Cherie’s house and fished the newly christened Greta out from under her claw-foot tub while trying not to gush too much about how much I love her novels.
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