In order to determine the age of a cat in human years, the age of the cat is times by nine. That would make Pussy Cat, Queen of the Yard, somewhere around 135. No wonder she doesn't like the new puppy.
For as long as I can remember, I have always had a cat. There have been many during my 6.4 years.....cat years. Phyllis was the first one I remember, a skinny yellow cat, who arrived when I was about 5. She had one litter of kittens and they all died, after that she would still come into heat, but there were no more kittens. I recall looking out the south window and seeing her sitting in the middle of a circle of tom cats. She was putting on quite a performance for her audience. The next thing I saw was Dad with a broom and tom cats fleeing for the hills. I cried and told him she was doing tricks for her friends.....I'm sure he must have thought that statement pretty humorous, indeed, she was doing tricks. Phyllis lived until the summer of my freshman year of high school.
During the years of my youth, we also inherited a cat or two. When Lela moved to a bigger city, her cat Effingham came to live with us. He was a beautiful long haired cat who would pee in mother's shoe if she did not get up early enough on Saturday mornings to take care of his needs.
I can remember most of their names, Clyde, Tommy, Mitten, the first Pussy Cat, Bishop, Harrison Ford, no relation to the actor, and Hammy Hambone. The first Tigger, Emma, Hosaphina, Tommy Boy and then Max.
Max came to me in the month of June, ten months after the passing of my mother. He was a tiny grey ball of fur with a meow that sounded like his name. For four years he was my constant outside companion. Max had a habit of leaving the safe parameters of the yard and once disappeared for an entire month. One day I opened the back door and there he was, skinny and hungry, but happy to be home and I was happy to see him.
Max was here four years and then he was gone. I went out to greet him and the only thing I found was a dead squirrel in the yard. This was the third dead squirrel in as many days. Max would kill them and bring them home, Tommy Boy would eat them.
I searched for Max for days with no luck. One evening, three months later, my daughter showed me a picture someone had posted on a social media site. It was Max. He was four miles straight west of here, in the country. We loaded up in the car and went to see if it could possibly be him. It was and as bad as I wanted to bring him home, I left him. He had a new home, he was happy and even though he was happy to see me, something had changed. His new owners said his paw was injured when they found him. I knew then, that however he got there, it must have been a traumatic experience. His new people assured me visitation rights and from time to time, I drop by for a visit.
The latest feline arrival was Tigger, of whom I have blogged many times. I thought he acted a bit "off" the other day, but he continued to play with the new puppy, Runtly, although not quite as ferocously as usual. I just figured maybe he was getting tired of having his tail bitten by the small jaws of steel. Yesterday morning, when I opened the door to the garage, I knew for sure something was wrong. Tigger was not at the door, ready to come out. He was still in his straw filled box. He finally did come outside and Runtly did his usual "Oh! I'm so happy to see you!" greeting and jumped on Tigger's back. Being ever so patient, Tigger just laid down and offered no resistance.
Tigger spent the morning on his perch, a shelf that extends out from the deck. He wanted no company and his breathing was kind of rapid. I checked on him several times, but since he was on the outside of the deck, six feet off the ground, I could not pick him up for a closer inspection. Later in the day, he had moved to the pool deck, following the sun. I could see him when I had taken Runtly out and my plan was to take a better look at him, as soon as I took the dog back inside. I looked at Tigger as I headed to the house, he was sitting up, looking back at me.
I wasn't in the house five minutes and when I came back out, he was gone.......he's still gone. Maybe he has a special place, a place where he can rest and heal, I do no know. It's weird though, Runtly looks for him each time we go out the back door and makes no attempt to scamper down the steps, like he always does when Tigger is there. Even the birds have resumed their flight pattern across the deck, on their way to the feeder.
I can see his perch each time I walk through the kitchen and I look there, hoping to see my little yellow buddy.
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