Charlotte is a little bit famous. She's been photographed:
She's been drawn:
She's been sketched:
She's had stories written about her:
(The following is an excerpt from My Dirty Cat Charlotte by S. Camille Crawford)
1. And She Waits
Charlotte sat half under the front step of the old wood-sided home, now used as an international boarding house, on Rue de Fabuleux, in Paris. The street was aptly named after a 17th century French analyst, Etienne Fabuleux, known for his work in celestial mechanics. There was no sign on the door.
Most of the homes on Rue de Fabuleux had long ago been renovated and re-inhabited by delicatessens and small law firms. But the faded cream-coloured paint on the grey brittle wood siding of the Hitoshi Pension, was the preferred location for Charlotte to exorcise her patient indifference on this most fabulous capillary in the network of Paris.
A touch of green showed through in places where the cream-coloured paint had chipped away. “I look good in the foreground against this canvas,” she mused. The old hazel-green of her eyes matched the previous colour of the house and the stark contrast of her dirty black and white coat beckoned glances from nearby. She was noticeable here. Etienne had fancied himself absolutely fabulous when the inscription of his name had been engraved on the two stone tablets marking each end of the street, and Charlotte fancied herself just as fabulous, as she rooted herself in her regal demure next to the dandelions protruding from under the step.
Charlotte sighed. She’d been waiting, statuesque, for the whole day. Waiting for something to happen, for someone to come, for an occurrence of the sort she knew would be precious, but did not yet know the details of. The light of this world, or any other, shone on her, shone through her, shone for her. It would happen, and a fabulous cat such as she, would know it when it came. She would be waiting. She had the patience to let things come to her, as inevitably, they would.
2. One Early Paris Evening
Just when Charlotte thought nothing would take place that day, Einen, stoic and slightly angry looking, mysteriously appeared in the doorway of Madam Paix de Beauregard’s Patisserie. She had not seen him enter. He descended the 3 steps to the street, paused, then turned southward and began walking deliberately in her direction. Charlotte stepped once forward, shook the dust from her paw before placing it on the step, then leapt cleanly to the swept stone portico above. She ignored the stiffness in her joints from having poised on her watch all day. Without taking her eyes off Einen, she delicately sat, centered under the faded grey and black sign of the pension. There was a groan from somewhere inside, like old wood complaining, tired from years of service. Einen approached the single step separating them, stopped and looked up as if suddenly unsure if this was where he wanted to go. The light was fading into that poignant early evening shade of deep blue, where two heroes, one looking out, the other looking in, could face each other in a calm momentarily eternal silence. Einen was close enough for Charlotte to sense his sultry even breath, the slight grimace at the corners of his mouth. A wisp of his shiny, recently washed, shoulder length black hair stirred in the barely noticeable breeze. As if he actually knew she wanted to take in the sight of him, he lingered, unaware of her presence, before deciding he wanted to enter.
(Copyright 2010 by S. Camille Crawford. All rights reserved.)
And finally, she's been dearly loved by the many who have known her.
Charlotte, we will miss you.
My beautiful kitty is very ill and won't make it through the weekend. Please give her your thoughts in these last days of her life. Those that she leaves behind, myself and Gemma, would sincerely appreciate it.