11-07-2007, 04:03 AM
Ten years ago, my sister fulfilled her childhold dream of getting a pet cat. Never mind the fact that she was a college freshman in a dorm where pets were not allowed: the little orange and white with the manx-like stance and stubby little tail was the dearest thing to her heart. And the nearest thing to her own personality: an attention-getter and crafty manipulator through the power of sheer cuteness.
Peanutbutter (one word) possessed a Garfield-like dominance of any situation, and nearly the same love for sleeping. He had two things Garfield didn't have though: genetically engineered super-strength and ruthless ambition to get his own way. And a short tail like that of a puppy dog.
Shut him in a bedroom so that the two other cats have a fair chance of finishing their food bowls? He'll open the door. No one gets between him and his dinner.
Place 8-pound lifting weights against a linen closet door so that he will not nestle on top of the towels? He'll roll them aside. No one gets between him and his naptime.
Put a cigarette in his mouth during a frat party, beckon others to see this only to have the cig fall out of his mouth? He'll gather it up between his paws and bogart it on his own.
Years and years as a college cat can't last forever. Eventually some of these folks actually graduate and move on with their lives. My sister? Married a dog lover. The cats' longtime caretaker? Married a dog lover. Falling to circumstance, Peanutbutter and the his two lifelong companions were in need of a home that would keep them togetherâ they came to me.
Sleep in on weekends? He'll jump on the bed and claw your legs. No one gets between him and his breakfast.
Plan on sitting on the couch? He'll already be there, right in the middle. No one gets between him and his seat of power.
This past weekend, I had to send Peanutbutter to the emergency animal clinic. Diabetes and liver failure. For the past four days, I still put down three dishes of food for the two remaining cats, to assure them that the third plate would be used once more.
Today, I laid down only two plates. Hardest part was keeping the tears out of the food.
My sister came down for the end and said her goodbyes. Only solace I can take now is that Peanutbutter has firmly wrested control of the feline afterlife and decreed to all that they throw a toga party that will last through eternity.
Party on, Mr. Peanut.
Peanutbutter (one word) possessed a Garfield-like dominance of any situation, and nearly the same love for sleeping. He had two things Garfield didn't have though: genetically engineered super-strength and ruthless ambition to get his own way. And a short tail like that of a puppy dog.
Shut him in a bedroom so that the two other cats have a fair chance of finishing their food bowls? He'll open the door. No one gets between him and his dinner.
Place 8-pound lifting weights against a linen closet door so that he will not nestle on top of the towels? He'll roll them aside. No one gets between him and his naptime.
Put a cigarette in his mouth during a frat party, beckon others to see this only to have the cig fall out of his mouth? He'll gather it up between his paws and bogart it on his own.
Years and years as a college cat can't last forever. Eventually some of these folks actually graduate and move on with their lives. My sister? Married a dog lover. The cats' longtime caretaker? Married a dog lover. Falling to circumstance, Peanutbutter and the his two lifelong companions were in need of a home that would keep them togetherâ they came to me.
Sleep in on weekends? He'll jump on the bed and claw your legs. No one gets between him and his breakfast.
Plan on sitting on the couch? He'll already be there, right in the middle. No one gets between him and his seat of power.
This past weekend, I had to send Peanutbutter to the emergency animal clinic. Diabetes and liver failure. For the past four days, I still put down three dishes of food for the two remaining cats, to assure them that the third plate would be used once more.
Today, I laid down only two plates. Hardest part was keeping the tears out of the food.
My sister came down for the end and said her goodbyes. Only solace I can take now is that Peanutbutter has firmly wrested control of the feline afterlife and decreed to all that they throw a toga party that will last through eternity.
Party on, Mr. Peanut.
Political Correctness is the idea that you can foster tolerance in a diverse world through the intolerance of anything that strays from a clinical standard.