I have always believed that a man "shoots his own dog", so to speak. Last night, my boy made that choice unnecessary . . .
A little over 13 years ago a ginger tom cat named Winston stepped out of his cage at the animal shelter into my arms and over my shoulder. He stayed there, purring, until Karen came in from the other room full of cats. She took one look at Winston, and looked at me when I turned around, and said, "I guess we found our new cat." We renamed him Chester, because Winston was a little too pompous for such a laid back a feline.
Chester was immediately "my" cat, outnumbered as we both were by the other females in the house. Eventually he was outnumbered three to one by Sita, Anna, and Keira.
We lost his harem over the space of a year and a bit and, as is the way of things, new cats were brought into our home. Chester adapted to this new reality, secure in his place in the pecking order. And the two new additions quickly learned that they could run around the house to their heart's content, but that certain areas belonged to Chester, and to Chester alone.
Our bedroom, and specifically, our bed, were Chester's throne room and place of repose. It became a nightly routine of Chester coming to bed when we did, lying down between my pillow and the headboard, and purring until I fell asleep. He was my "white noise" machine.
The ginger tabby that entered our lives draped over my shoulder 13 years ago, left our lives the same way tonight, draped over that same shoulder He had some sort of seizure, and was gone in seconds, He was a good cat, and we were lucky to have had him as long as we did.
They are not meant to be our lifelong companions, we are meant to be theirs.
A little over 13 years ago a ginger tom cat named Winston stepped out of his cage at the animal shelter into my arms and over my shoulder. He stayed there, purring, until Karen came in from the other room full of cats. She took one look at Winston, and looked at me when I turned around, and said, "I guess we found our new cat." We renamed him Chester, because Winston was a little too pompous for such a laid back a feline.
Chester was immediately "my" cat, outnumbered as we both were by the other females in the house. Eventually he was outnumbered three to one by Sita, Anna, and Keira.
We lost his harem over the space of a year and a bit and, as is the way of things, new cats were brought into our home. Chester adapted to this new reality, secure in his place in the pecking order. And the two new additions quickly learned that they could run around the house to their heart's content, but that certain areas belonged to Chester, and to Chester alone.
Our bedroom, and specifically, our bed, were Chester's throne room and place of repose. It became a nightly routine of Chester coming to bed when we did, lying down between my pillow and the headboard, and purring until I fell asleep. He was my "white noise" machine.
The ginger tabby that entered our lives draped over my shoulder 13 years ago, left our lives the same way tonight, draped over that same shoulder He had some sort of seizure, and was gone in seconds, He was a good cat, and we were lucky to have had him as long as we did.
They are not meant to be our lifelong companions, we are meant to be theirs.
