I've had many cats and dogs over the years. Although I have loved them all....some stand out more than others...some touched deep heartstrings, and I still cannot say why, in particular.
Huey was my big orange and white baby....found in a basement....among a litter and brought to me. I adored him and the feeling was mutual. I sang to him and he purred. He spoke to me..."The phone is ringing...you might want to answer that." He would gently pat my eyelids in the morning to wake me up. He was my first love, my first baby.
I sought another, which, of course, one learns the hard way....you cannot do. It isn't up to you. By circumstance a hairdresser in Michigan took in a pregnant cat and I agreed to take a kitten on the condition that she spay the mother. Which she did. That became Basil, or Bazz, the Bazz Man. My little orange grumpy boy. Much like the cartoon cat Garfield, but slightly sweeter in a curmudgeony way. He was a nose nipper and would be ultra sweet and then swat you the next moment. He was Mr. Ambassador, always welcoming whomever we dragged in. He had a rebel streak and would escape from time to time.....but he lived to be over 22 years of age and died in my arms.
Steve was my hero dog...the best dog ever. Yes, I know they all are, but he really was. He was amazingly smart and intuitive. He protected me. He played with me. He waited for me to come home, as I could see his silly silhouette in the window...ears would go up, head would cock...."There she is!"...he took care of his harem of cats (Bazz included)...no fighting on Officer Steve's watch!..and he kept me warm on cold winter nights.
He told a joke once....I had a cat named Rathbone (Basil and Rathbone, for Sherlock Holmes fans)...whom I usually called just "Bone." One evening Steven wanted to play...face in my lap....hah, hah, hah...tail going...he wants to play....in my second story apartment in Astoria, Queens...(meaning, "play" is limited)...so I said "Go get your bone!"...it was one of those "airbones" ..basically a tennis ball in the shape of a dog bone. Go ahead..go get your bone!....Rathbone was sleeping peacefully on the couch....Steve went to the couch and tried to lift Rathbone …"Bone",,up from the couch....Bone was not amused....but I was...…."Not THAT Bone! YOUR bone!"...with that, Stevie's tail went wild, his whole back end did a shake and his eyes said it all...."You got it! You got my joke!"...he was so tickled!
It took me more than three years after his death to even consider another dog....I was devastated....and I still am to some degree.....because Steve was Steve....and there is no other.
So, here we are in Italy and my husband is dead set against another cat. No more cats. None. Ever. And...there are cats everywhere in the streets and it is breaking my heart. So, he says.....well...feed them...other people do.
If you feed them, they will come. And they did. We had to give them names to differentiate. Using cumbersome descriptions..."Yeah, the black one, but the smaller black one...one is bigger, that one"..,or "That gray striped one, but the one that is a little darker than the other one"...wasn't working too well. So...they became Sib, Ink, Scruff, Pirate, Calze, Demon and Mamma...and a few others. I happily fed them for months and made an agreement with a veterinarian to have whoever I trapped neutered, since there is no program in this obscure hill town.
I was well on the way to fruition of that plan when a neighbor...a lawyer...rather than speaking to us...called the local authorities. (I am not the only one who feeds and shelters the feral cats, by the way)...and we were not singled out, but we had police at our door. It was not pleasant.
One of those ferals….Scruff...Mamma's baby....Ink is too and Pirate was, but she succumbed to a fatal blow to an eye....Scruff...allowed me to handle him...and I administered medicine to his eyes, which were goopy and often stuck shut. After treating his eyes, he really took a shine to me, as they say.
Here we are now, in winter....it goes down to freezing at night.....and now I am being prohibited from feeding them. Other neighbors rallied round. Don't listen. He's a bad guy. I feed them too. Don't worry. Well....we worry because we are "stranieri"...foreigners.
My husband broke......he broke down. He walked into the house the other night with Scruff in his arms. Scruff has been in Harry's old kennel for 5 days now....eating, drinking, sleeping....no interest in coming out. It's as though he is exhausted and he's only 7 or 8 months old. We open the door and he reaches out to close it again. It's ok, I'm good in here. Safe. Warm. Fed.
I pet him and he purrs. He rolled over this morning...first time I've seen his tummy. He has come out, but only twice and only briefly. Very surprising, since he was the little Prince of the Piazzetta....he seems so relieved....and tired. I love this tiny creature...I have since day one and can't say why. Something about him touches me. His funny little face, almost like a miniature bobcat. His trust and affection.
We are on the brink of species extinction, and I realized today that now I have to live....I have to live for Scruff....he may have 20 years...I'm not sure I have 20 years...I'm not sure the human race does..but now I have a tiny, fluffy, funny faced reason to wake up another day.
Huey was my big orange and white baby....found in a basement....among a litter and brought to me. I adored him and the feeling was mutual. I sang to him and he purred. He spoke to me..."The phone is ringing...you might want to answer that." He would gently pat my eyelids in the morning to wake me up. He was my first love, my first baby.
I sought another, which, of course, one learns the hard way....you cannot do. It isn't up to you. By circumstance a hairdresser in Michigan took in a pregnant cat and I agreed to take a kitten on the condition that she spay the mother. Which she did. That became Basil, or Bazz, the Bazz Man. My little orange grumpy boy. Much like the cartoon cat Garfield, but slightly sweeter in a curmudgeony way. He was a nose nipper and would be ultra sweet and then swat you the next moment. He was Mr. Ambassador, always welcoming whomever we dragged in. He had a rebel streak and would escape from time to time.....but he lived to be over 22 years of age and died in my arms.
Steve was my hero dog...the best dog ever. Yes, I know they all are, but he really was. He was amazingly smart and intuitive. He protected me. He played with me. He waited for me to come home, as I could see his silly silhouette in the window...ears would go up, head would cock...."There she is!"...he took care of his harem of cats (Bazz included)...no fighting on Officer Steve's watch!..and he kept me warm on cold winter nights.
He told a joke once....I had a cat named Rathbone (Basil and Rathbone, for Sherlock Holmes fans)...whom I usually called just "Bone." One evening Steven wanted to play...face in my lap....hah, hah, hah...tail going...he wants to play....in my second story apartment in Astoria, Queens...(meaning, "play" is limited)...so I said "Go get your bone!"...it was one of those "airbones" ..basically a tennis ball in the shape of a dog bone. Go ahead..go get your bone!....Rathbone was sleeping peacefully on the couch....Steve went to the couch and tried to lift Rathbone …"Bone",,up from the couch....Bone was not amused....but I was...…."Not THAT Bone! YOUR bone!"...with that, Stevie's tail went wild, his whole back end did a shake and his eyes said it all...."You got it! You got my joke!"...he was so tickled!
It took me more than three years after his death to even consider another dog....I was devastated....and I still am to some degree.....because Steve was Steve....and there is no other.
So, here we are in Italy and my husband is dead set against another cat. No more cats. None. Ever. And...there are cats everywhere in the streets and it is breaking my heart. So, he says.....well...feed them...other people do.
If you feed them, they will come. And they did. We had to give them names to differentiate. Using cumbersome descriptions..."Yeah, the black one, but the smaller black one...one is bigger, that one"..,or "That gray striped one, but the one that is a little darker than the other one"...wasn't working too well. So...they became Sib, Ink, Scruff, Pirate, Calze, Demon and Mamma...and a few others. I happily fed them for months and made an agreement with a veterinarian to have whoever I trapped neutered, since there is no program in this obscure hill town.
I was well on the way to fruition of that plan when a neighbor...a lawyer...rather than speaking to us...called the local authorities. (I am not the only one who feeds and shelters the feral cats, by the way)...and we were not singled out, but we had police at our door. It was not pleasant.
One of those ferals….Scruff...Mamma's baby....Ink is too and Pirate was, but she succumbed to a fatal blow to an eye....Scruff...allowed me to handle him...and I administered medicine to his eyes, which were goopy and often stuck shut. After treating his eyes, he really took a shine to me, as they say.
Here we are now, in winter....it goes down to freezing at night.....and now I am being prohibited from feeding them. Other neighbors rallied round. Don't listen. He's a bad guy. I feed them too. Don't worry. Well....we worry because we are "stranieri"...foreigners.
My husband broke......he broke down. He walked into the house the other night with Scruff in his arms. Scruff has been in Harry's old kennel for 5 days now....eating, drinking, sleeping....no interest in coming out. It's as though he is exhausted and he's only 7 or 8 months old. We open the door and he reaches out to close it again. It's ok, I'm good in here. Safe. Warm. Fed.
I pet him and he purrs. He rolled over this morning...first time I've seen his tummy. He has come out, but only twice and only briefly. Very surprising, since he was the little Prince of the Piazzetta....he seems so relieved....and tired. I love this tiny creature...I have since day one and can't say why. Something about him touches me. His funny little face, almost like a miniature bobcat. His trust and affection.
We are on the brink of species extinction, and I realized today that now I have to live....I have to live for Scruff....he may have 20 years...I'm not sure I have 20 years...I'm not sure the human race does..but now I have a tiny, fluffy, funny faced reason to wake up another day.
