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Eighteen years ago come May, my older sister and I went to our vet's clinic to see if they had any kittens. In February of the same year my dad had gone there (I think it was also the local humane society) and had brought home a German Shepherd- supposedly for the family, but she really looked to my older brother J.
Now it was my turn- and I wanted a kitten. When we got there they didn't have very many available- there was one new momma kitty, but her kittens weren't going to be available for a few more weeks. Exhibiting my typical patience level, I didn't want to wait. There was at least one other girl kitten available- but she was going to be a long haired and mom had said no long haired cats.
There was a short haired little boy kitten that was just freshly bathed. I picked him and he was promptly dubbed Prince Alexander. We brought him home, the squirmy lil fellow, and my mother's first words were "He looks scruffy." This was just fine with me. I had tried to make my room kitten safe, but of course underestimated the sly wiles of an 8 week old boy-kitty. He got himself behind the headboard of my bed, into an area I couldn't reach, and stayed hidden there for a bit. At 13 I didn't realize this was normal and, of course, freaked out.
The years passed, and he went through many name incarnations- Alex P. Kitten, Alex, Zander, Demon Spawn, Mr. A, and most recently dubbed Little Buddy by my dad. Alex was supposed to be my cat, but as time went on it became clear that he was really my parents's cat. After I went away to college there really was no question- he was theirs. He would spend evenings curled up on my dad's lap, sharing his ice cream and being combed.
The scruffiness continued, and he was a scrapper. Before he got too far along he'd managed to lose half of a front fang and bits from his ears. The local crows hated the sight of him- probably because he managed to snag one of theirs before he was a year old. I think the crow was bigger than he was! In the winter he would go out for his morning business (he hated litter boxes) and then he'd scurry in and behind the couch. The couch sat in front of the heating vent and a plate glass window. So the little black kitty would soak up the heat from the vent, AND bask in the early rays of sunshine, with the back of the couch and the curtain tucked around him to hold the heat in. Pretty smart.
Mom e-mailed us kids last night to let us know that he had been going further and faster downhill this week, he seemed to be behaving if something was wrong with his back legs- and he's been mostly skin and bones for over a year. Yesterday my dad took him to the vet so he could just sleep peacefully.
Good bye Mr. A. You will be missed.
(Picture is of Alex, on the left, and Liska the chub-chub calico from Christmas 2003)
Now it was my turn- and I wanted a kitten. When we got there they didn't have very many available- there was one new momma kitty, but her kittens weren't going to be available for a few more weeks. Exhibiting my typical patience level, I didn't want to wait. There was at least one other girl kitten available- but she was going to be a long haired and mom had said no long haired cats.
There was a short haired little boy kitten that was just freshly bathed. I picked him and he was promptly dubbed Prince Alexander. We brought him home, the squirmy lil fellow, and my mother's first words were "He looks scruffy." This was just fine with me. I had tried to make my room kitten safe, but of course underestimated the sly wiles of an 8 week old boy-kitty. He got himself behind the headboard of my bed, into an area I couldn't reach, and stayed hidden there for a bit. At 13 I didn't realize this was normal and, of course, freaked out.
The years passed, and he went through many name incarnations- Alex P. Kitten, Alex, Zander, Demon Spawn, Mr. A, and most recently dubbed Little Buddy by my dad. Alex was supposed to be my cat, but as time went on it became clear that he was really my parents's cat. After I went away to college there really was no question- he was theirs. He would spend evenings curled up on my dad's lap, sharing his ice cream and being combed.
The scruffiness continued, and he was a scrapper. Before he got too far along he'd managed to lose half of a front fang and bits from his ears. The local crows hated the sight of him- probably because he managed to snag one of theirs before he was a year old. I think the crow was bigger than he was! In the winter he would go out for his morning business (he hated litter boxes) and then he'd scurry in and behind the couch. The couch sat in front of the heating vent and a plate glass window. So the little black kitty would soak up the heat from the vent, AND bask in the early rays of sunshine, with the back of the couch and the curtain tucked around him to hold the heat in. Pretty smart.
Mom e-mailed us kids last night to let us know that he had been going further and faster downhill this week, he seemed to be behaving if something was wrong with his back legs- and he's been mostly skin and bones for over a year. Yesterday my dad took him to the vet so he could just sleep peacefully.
Good bye Mr. A. You will be missed.
(Picture is of Alex, on the left, and Liska the chub-chub calico from Christmas 2003)
