My furry best friend

 It was Christmas morning, my girlfriend Sandy and I were spooning and in a deep sleep. We spent Christmas eve at her house. A very noisy ruckus disturbed my bliss. I sat bold upright and for a few seconds was totally disoriented. What was that large doll doing on the chair across from my bed? Since when was my room painted pink? My girlfriend’s hug and kiss reoriented me but what was that horrendous noise? It sounded like someone was dying or being murdered.

“It’s my cats and dog. It sounds like it’s coming from the garage. They must have cornered something.” Sandy whispered in my ear. We both rose. I put on some running shorts and Sandy grabbed a robe and we ran barefoot to the garage. Sure enough her two Persians and Golden Retriever were in a corner of the garage trying to get behind a huge chest that was against the wall.

“There’s something behind the chest. Let’s move it.” Sandy said as she pulled the chest away from the wall. I restrained the Golden Retriever and Sandy blocked the Persians as soon as we saw it. A small gray fur ball was trembling in the corner.

“Oh my, it’s a kitten. It looks like a newborn. Someone must have dumped it Christmas eve. It’s not that unusual. Let’s bring it into the house.” Sandy said as she lifted the little being into the palm of her hand.

I had never seen such a small being and feared for its life. My experience with pets was limited to fish and turtles. According to my mother, I was allergic to all kinds of fur. I was allowed only one stuffed toy during my childhood. You could say I was pet and toy deprived. So, when Sandy took the fur ball into the house with all her pets following, I was clueless what to do next. Sandy put a saucer of milk on the kitchen counter and tried to tilt the kitten’s head towards the milk but to no avail. The kitten would not drink. She then took a pair of rubber gloves, cut off the top of one of the fingers and filled the glove with milk. Lo and behold, the kitten began to suckle. I was impressed.

“Wow, you really have a knack and know-how with your pets. Now you’ll have three cats.” I said admiringly.

 Sandy shook her head. “There’s no way I can handle another cat. My cats will eat the little thing for lunch. You should take it home with you. It will be good practice for you to live with another being.”

I wasn’t sure how to interpret the implication of her last comment but chose to ignore it. Instead, I pulled my allergy card. “I am allergic to animal fur and am not home during the daytime. It’s not a good idea.”

Sandy smiled and put the fur ball in my hand. “I don’t see you sneezing now, and my pets don’t seem to affect you. Cats are pretty independent, just leave some food out for it during the day and it will be fine. Try it for a week and if you can’t handle it, you can return it to me or give it to a shelter.”

I shook my head and tried to give the fur ball back to Sandy, but she turned away. Her dog and cats were still lingering curiously around my legs, and I felt suddenly protective. I walked the kitten to the bedroom, put it on the bed and got dressed. Sandy accompanied me to my car. I had the kitten clutched against my chest. It had stopped trembling. I kissed Sandy goodbye, placed the kitten on my lap and started the car. After a few minutes of driving the kitten had crawled up onto my chest and was looking into my eyes. I knew I was screwed! My heart melted and we bonded for life.

For the next few weeks, I fed it with a rubber glove but eventually got Bobcat or Bob to drink from a saucer. He grew into a large, long haired gray cat and a ferocious hunter. I sneezed occasionally but the deluge did not come. After a month, I let him wander outside. I was tired of cleaning his cat box and thought he might start doing his business elsewhere. At first, I restricted him to my fenced backyard. We would play tag. I would chase him the length of the yard pat his head and then turn and have him chase me. We would repeat the chase several times until I became exhausted. Soon I noticed that he could jump un top of the six-foot fence and escape, but he’d always return for dinner.

One morning as I ran down my street to the busy boulevard where I would complete a ten-mile run, I noticed a gray blur running parallel to me in the shadows. As I crossed the road, Bob followed me into traffic. I jumped in front of an oncoming car with my hands waving, grabbed Bob and ran him home. For the next several years, I locked him in the house during my runs.

Sleeping was an adventure with Bob. He would either wrap himself around my neck like a fur collar or lie next to me and purr into my ear. I would either sweat for hours or lay awake until the purring stopped, or I conditioned myself to its soothing effect. Occasionally, I’d wake up to his kneading my chest with his nails. I’d then throw him into the hallway and close the door, but he’d just cry until I relented and let him back in. If he was still in the hallway in the morning, I’d see his paws moving back and forth under the doorway.

If I was home during the day, Bob would observe me from the top of the eight-foot wall which partitioned my living room from the hallway. He was my sentinel. Other days he’d bring me gifts, usually live ones.  I knew I was in trouble when I’d see him run by me emitting a muffled sound. Something was in his mouth. Mice, birds and voles were common prey. I would try to corner them with a broom and a wastepaper basket while sequestering Bob to a different room.  Most of the time, I was able to save his gifts from an untimely and unseemly death and liberate them in my backyard. Occasionally, I found corpses behind doorways in my house. Bob preferred presenting me with live gifts. I wasn’t thrilled. He amazed me several times with the size of his gifts. I spent a whole day chasing a bat with a broom and directing a Bluejay to an open window.

 I found the most memorable gift in my bathtub. There was a trail of blood leading from the hallway, through my bedroom, up and into the tub. I followed the trail and to my horror found a large headless squirrel lying in a pool of blood. At least Bob had the sense to dispose of the corpse in an easily cleaned place. Still, I felt I was witnessing a murder scene. Tearfully, I donned a pair of plastic gloves, deposited the body in a plastic bag and ran down the street, looking for a place to deposit the evidence. Several blocks away, there was a house with very thick bushes in its front yard. I emptied the bag and disposed of the body in the bushes. It would decompose before anyone could find it. No one could implicate Bob. I ran home and was somewhat relieved but spent hours cleaning my floor and bathtub.

Bob’s forays into the wilderness weren’t always successful. He had many fights with raccoons and other cats. I treated him for wounds and abscesses almost monthly. Injecting him with antibiotics was a challenge. I think I still have the scars from his scratches. Strangely, he would put my finger or hand in his mouth as a threat but never bite. I guess he knew the adage never bite the hand that feeds you.

Bob was very sociable. He’d visit all the neighbors, often just walking through their front door if invited. Inevitably, he’d be fed. After a few years I had to put a note around his neck that said Don’t feed me, since he was becoming obese. When I had visitors, he’d follow them around the house until they sat down and then he’d jump onto their laps and purr. Guests sleeping in my guest bedroom were treated to a furry bedmate. During Bob’s first year, my mother, who was notoriously animal phobic came screaming out of the bedroom in the middle of the night when Bob jumped on her chest. She eventually grew to appreciate his affections. She was shocked when I greeted her at her arrival with Bob on my shoulder purring. My shoulder was his usual perch when guests arrived.

When Bob was four, a cousin was evicted from her apartment and needed a place to stay for a few months with her two cats. I offered my guest bedroom. Bob was not thrilled. The two cats were not friendly, and Bob would disappear for days. I would receive calls from a neighbor a half a mile away. Bob would cry in his backyard all night. I’d drive down the road, find Bob and take him home. Eventually, I moved into a one room apartment I had on my property to give my cousin and her cats more space. They were extending their visit and my cousin did not seem to understand or care how disruptive they were. I had had enough. Bob slept with me nightly when I wasn’t at my girlfriend’s house. Eventually, Bob and I regained possession of our house.

As the years passed Bob’s fur became thinner and he shrank. He developed hyperthyroidism. The vet prescribed liquid medication for him. I tried to squirt the liquid into his mouth but to no avail. Trying to squirt it between his teeth was too risky and he’d squirm away. Finally, I mixed it in his food and hoped he’d ingested at least most of the needed dose. He was aging and would cry most of the night. I got married and moved into a house a mile away. After several sleepless nights my wife and I decided to sequester Bob with his cat box in a room on the other side of the house at nighttime. We slept better.

As Bob passed into his seventeenth and eighteenth year, he developed cat dementia and became incontinent, leaving us new kinds of presents around the house. Interestingly, he’d wander down to my old neighborhood a mile away and visit all the old neighbors. I’d receive phone calls from them to come retrieve him. Finally, one morning as I stretched on the floor, Bob licked my face, my arms and legs. I had an ominous feeling. He had never done that before. One hour later, when I was at work, my wife called. She found Bob dead on the kitchen floor. He had said his goodbye. I still have some of his ashes. The rest are buried in our backyard with a cat headstone. He was my bud and I miss him.