Monday morning, Olivia was running across the loft banister, which always makes me fucking trucknutz with anxiety, and she FELL OFF. You know, the exact thing I'm constantly anxious about.
Because she's totes Biggie Smalls, she landed with a huge THUD!!! on the hardwood floor below, and I went running downstairs to see if she was okay.
She was strolling around like nothing happened, and looked up at me like, "What?"
I picked her up and squeezed all her toes and legs, and turned her 'round and 'round while I poked and prodded, and she didn't wince or whine or anything. She just squirmed away and ran to the kitchen and started mewing for more food, which she does 97 times a day, even though it never works.
At least she didn't do it on purpose, like certain other dumbass cats I could name.
I swear Livs is lucky as hell and equally indestructible. We came to be her people after she fell off a farm truck in front of us on a highway when she was a wee kitten, bouncing off the pavement at 60mph and escaping with scraped paws and a few stitches in her chin. She pushed out a screen on a window once and got out; we live near the intersection of two busy streets and she was gone for two days, until she showed up on the porch, demanding to be let back in. She didn't have a mark or a flea on her.
I'm thinking she's got about six lives left.
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