She was an extraordinary little cat.  I had her from 1982 to 1996,
when she went to RB courtesy of a sudden acute renal failure.  

She looked like quite a no-nonsense little cat-- like a tiny nun, in
fact.  And she had a certain no-nonsense manner.  But while she was a
very level-headed, purposeful little being-- a no- nonsense cat, as
opposed to Stinky, who is an "all-nonsense cat"-- she really had a lot
more mischief in her than Stinky does.   Stinky is a goofball, but
really quite an open-hearted, innocent goofball.  Mimi was a nun, but
a wicked little nun. ;)

Practically to the last day of her life, she woke me up every day by
knocking everything on my night table to the floor, and ended every
day wearing me (and the former Mr. Theresa) out, playing chase all
over the house.  

Her favorite thing in the world was being chased, and the more noise
you made doing it, the better.  Once when the former Mr. T was chasing
her and I complained about the noise, his reply was "Don't interfere
in our relationship." :P

Chasing privileges only extended to her hoomins, though.  Stinky
understandably wanted to join, but he was always rewarded with a
hisspit and a bop on the nose.  

She always looked at Stinky with a remarkable expression of disgusted
fascination- "What *is* this creature?  Why have you brought him
here?"   We felt bad for Stinky, who was and is such a friendly
sweetheart, and was bewildered by this attitude, but it was hilarious.
In fact, it was she who named him "Stinky"-- her face said, so
patently, "Why have you brought me this stinky kitten?"  I would say
to Mimi, "Well, how's the stinky kitten today, Mimi?"  And the rest,
as they say . . .

She sometimes seemed to decide to give him a chance, just for the hell
of it, and sidle up to him while he was asleep, and sniff him.  But
her face would change, almost involuntarily to disgust, and she would
hiss and deliver a couple of good whaps to his head before scampering
away.  Stinky would awake, seemingly with stars and planets orbiting
his head.

Her other favorite thing in the world was knocking things off other
things.   Light things, she pushed with her dainty little
white-mittened paw.  But bigger things-- the telephone, computer
keyboards-- she would get behind and push with her head, like a
battering ram. ;)

Christmas was always interesting because of her remarkable irreverence
to the Holy Family.  Our antique creche was seen as nothing more than
more fodder for her gravity experiments, and the baby Jesus in his
manger, the perfect cat toy size and dimensions.  The Baby Jesus went
on any number of unscheduled flights off the piano onto the living
room floor, and then under the radiator.

She did eventually learn to tolerate him, and indeed to groom him,
rather vigorously-- because IHHO, he obviously needed it, frequently.
;) And borderline violently. ;)  His patience was quite remarkable,
since he quickly grew to twice her size.  Their grooming sessions
resembled a tiny nun, imperiously inspecting a grubby pupil's ears.

Oh, and another favorite thing-- was rough trade.  She loved a good,
hard, full body massage, one that seemed ridiculous for her tiny
bones.  The harder, the better.  Interesting, because Stinky, who is
so much bigger, and seemingly tougher, prefers much gentler treatment.
But she took it as she dealt it out.  She would go to my mother and
demand what Mom called "Her weekly beating." ;)  Her favorite thing
was to be wrapped in a big towel and rubbed wildly.  

She loved to stroll up to a piece of furniture and take big, long
leisurely, powerful scratches on it, and look you right in the face as
she was doing it.  "Check this out!" she seemed to say. ;)

And most memorable of all, was her pokes.  With a hard little paw.
You would be minding your own business-- reading, working on the
computer, and she would sidle quietly up to you, and gaze up at you,
appealingly.  If you were dumb enough to continue what you were doing
after that, you would quickly feel a hard POKE POKE.  She would pick
up her paw, and nudge you, quite decisively, always twice.  And repeat
it for as many times as necessary . . .

When she went to RB, I and the former Mr. T. were no longer together,
and he was not able to say goodbye before she went.    So I met him,
one day, a few weeks later, with the little tin of her ashes, so he
could say goodbye.  He picked up the tin and kissed it.  "She was our
little girl," he said.

Theresa
Stinky Pictures: http://community.webshots.com/album/125591586JWEFwh
My Blog: http://www.humanitas.blogspot.com