I have 15 cats, and they aren't allowed in my office. It's the only "no kitty zone" in my house. I'm a writer and copyeditor, so there is a lot of stuff in here. Too many things to get into, pee on, puke on, well, you get the idea.
But Opie is such a good girl, and she simply adores the basket in the corner next to the peacock feathers. All she wants to do is come in here so she can get in that basket and go to sleep. She doesn't even bother the peacock feathers. My other cats would rip them to shreds. And the basket is the perfect size and shape for little Opie.
Opal is a real tomboy--hence the nickname Opie. She earned the nicknames "Opal Knievel" and "The Flying Wallenda" after jumping from the top of the entertainment center onto the ceiling fan, riding it once around the living room and then sailing over the top of the kitchen cabinets into the kitchen. The fan blade was permanently bent and it never ran right after that, but it was worth it.
Opal and her mama Crystal will chase each other all over the house like kittens. Opal is 7 and I have no idea how old Crystal is. I went to the Humane Society one day looking to foster a mama and litter of kittens, and Cryssie had just been left on the doorstep the night before with four newborn babies. I took them home, and they never went back. My daughter took one male, a short-haired ginger tabby (China), and I adopted the other three kittens--Opal, Reese and Hayley--and Crystal.
Of all my cats, Opal has the sweetest personality. Her brother Reese is a thug, and sister Hayley is the quietest of all of them. Opal hates Reese, though. He is a bully, and every time he walks past her, she hisses, even if he's not even looking at her. They're just like human brothers and sisters.