If humans were not accessible, Stormy settled for lamps. She would climb under the shade, rest her paws on either side of the light bulb and bask in her warm little house. Three lamps met their end this way, crashing to the floor when Stormy would lean too heavily into them.
She had other qualities worth mentioning, the most important being her pliability and forgiveness. As a child I would spin her in circles, strap her around my neck and shoulders (a very chic scarf, I would remind her), and toss her into bathtubs. She hated these things but tolerated them with grace, sometimes hissing but rarely holding grudges.
By the time I left for college, Stormy was aging and seemed to recognize, intuitively, a new kinship with my mother. Neither enjoyed the role of empty nester. My mom had quit her job to go back to school and would sit for long stretches at the computer to write papers. Stormy joined her on these late-night missions, unfailingly. Here the two old ladies worked tirelessly together; the first reading her sentences out loud, the second agreeing whole-heartedly and purring the words back to her.