… The lady at the shelter warned us that she had been returned repeatedly, didn’t use the litter box, couldn’t meow properly, washed herself like a rabbit, and had street-habits. Dave wasn’t impressed by any of that data. Neither was Perdita. They both stared at her until she shifted awkwardly under the glares of those who understood what it was to be different, and the silence of those unimpressed with the missteps of the past.
My Husband’s Soulmate (On Cats)