It’s been just about a year ago
that we lost 17 year old Dupree, the beautiful long haired black cat which John
had found as a kitten in a park in southeastern Ohio. He has been sorely
missed. Last Thursday, John brought home a tiny black kitten as a new member
of the household. He is part Siamese, relentlessly active, tearing about the
house, pouncing on newspapers and shredding them, jumping on tables and laps,
rushing up and down the stairs and skittering through the kitchen. It’s like
having a pet roach, without the disgust factor. He also does that Siamese
talking thing that they do.
Last night when the two far away
sisters arrived for Thanksgiving, he had a full audience of adoring cat lovers
oohing and aahing over his cuteness.
Today he has been sleeping of the
time, like a normal cat, relaxing after his stellar performance last night.
John hasn’t named him yet, waiting for him to let him know what it should be.
T.S. Eliot knew the importance of the naming of cats. Every cat I have had has
started out with one name and ended up with another, which seems to have fit
better than the previous one. So we
shall see what develops.
But I hate to think what he’ll do
to a Christmas tree.
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