Gypsy had clearly been living rough for weeks. You could tell by the look of her — scrappy and wandering, used to taking what she could find. That’s why little Marian named her Gypsy on the spot.
Marian brought her home just before dinner, thrilled to give this little waif a proper meal — not scraps hunted in alleys, but warm milk in a real saucer.
“I’ve brought a cat home,” she told her mother. “She’s homeless and friendless. I’ve named her Gypsy.”
Gypsy got her warm milk right away. Then the family sat down to dinner, and Gypsy arranged herself on top of the bookcase.
“Maybe she thinks she looks wise up there,” said Marian.
Gypsy blinked and purred — as if to say: I am wise. I know a good home when I find one.
During dinner, Gypsy would glance at the family from time to time. But whenever anyone turned to look at her, she immediately gazed off into the distance with great dignity — as if to say: I may have been a waif, but I have my pride. I am not a beggar.
From that day on, Gypsy always had her milk before Marian sat down to eat. She never once begged for food. She was a Gypsy cat, after all, and a Gypsy cat has her dignity.
