Oliver Cromwell will not be down for breakfast
Posted: Sun Mar 20, 2011 9:09 pm
Twenty and one half years ago, the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving, a tiny kitten walked out into the middle of Cromwell Road in Chattanooga in front of my car and waved a paw like he wanted to hitch a ride. I managed not to hit him, but after SWMBO and I got home, we realized we couldn't *not* go back and look for him.
We pulled over in the same spot, and shouted, "Here, kitty, kit... oh, hello," handed him some turkey ham, and became fast friends at once. He purred louder than my 1971 Dodge! We named him Oliver Cromwell due to the street. When we later found it was name for some other Cromwell, it was too late. Informal as he was, he generally went by "Ollie". He was a black shorthair, with just a bit of white smutz on his chest, with gradually increasing amounts of gray in his later years.
He grew up, but not much, never quite reaching nine pounds. Never scratched the furniture, never fussed over food, never brought in wildlife (though he did kill a few that others brought in), got along swimmingly with our other cats. And he continued to purr like a Mack truck. Not the smartest cat I've ever been owned by, nor the prettiest, nor the largest, but quite possibly the most loving.
When one lives with a geriatric cat, one always harbors some sense of apprehension, even when the Vet thinks we're lying about the cats age (he guessed 14 last November). Thus when his behavior changed two weeks ago, we tried the usual remedies, then got him some professional help. To no avail, we let him go late Saturday night.
Six hours later, I tried to pull a shift at the Mouse. Got along okay while things were busy, but when they slowed down, I started to lose it, and took ER. We'll see if tomorrow is any better.
Twenty years is a long time. Other than my wife and Mickey, I haven't known anyone longer. I think I'll be missing him for a long time.
We pulled over in the same spot, and shouted, "Here, kitty, kit... oh, hello," handed him some turkey ham, and became fast friends at once. He purred louder than my 1971 Dodge! We named him Oliver Cromwell due to the street. When we later found it was name for some other Cromwell, it was too late. Informal as he was, he generally went by "Ollie". He was a black shorthair, with just a bit of white smutz on his chest, with gradually increasing amounts of gray in his later years.
He grew up, but not much, never quite reaching nine pounds. Never scratched the furniture, never fussed over food, never brought in wildlife (though he did kill a few that others brought in), got along swimmingly with our other cats. And he continued to purr like a Mack truck. Not the smartest cat I've ever been owned by, nor the prettiest, nor the largest, but quite possibly the most loving.
When one lives with a geriatric cat, one always harbors some sense of apprehension, even when the Vet thinks we're lying about the cats age (he guessed 14 last November). Thus when his behavior changed two weeks ago, we tried the usual remedies, then got him some professional help. To no avail, we let him go late Saturday night.
Six hours later, I tried to pull a shift at the Mouse. Got along okay while things were busy, but when they slowed down, I started to lose it, and took ER. We'll see if tomorrow is any better.
Twenty years is a long time. Other than my wife and Mickey, I haven't known anyone longer. I think I'll be missing him for a long time.