Pidge is my second cousin, the daughter of Hazel, my mother's favorite relative. Pidge is so named because of the cooing sounds she made as a baby. She has a real name, but the people she knows and loves best get to call her Pidge. I am pleased to have that honor.
Pidge swallowed the anchor and moved to South Dakota after she retired from a career in the U.S. Navy. She's sailed small boats off the coast of California, where she describes breaking waves during a night watch as climbing over the stern and going "grrrr."
Pidge lives alone--at least alone in the sense of human company--in an farmhouse that is plagued by old house syndromes such as stinky bats in the attic that require professional intervention and lots of odor-banishing paint.
Stray cats find their way to Pidge's farm, where she shelters them from the South Dakota winter and takes care of their reproductive, dining, and medical needs; being a person who shares my DNA, how could she do otherwise?
Her life is filled with whimsy and compassion. I think Pidge is a fine person. See what you think.